


Tribulations

by arabis



Series: Signature [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Allspark!Sam, Captivity, Captor Bonding, Domestic Fluff, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Isolation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prime!Sam - Freeform, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, forced stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 155,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabis/pseuds/arabis
Summary: Sam felt his stomach twist itself in knots, and something compelled him to state with stark sincerity, “I won’t cooperate. Whatever it is you want, you aren’t going to get it.”To Sam’s surprise, his words were met with dry amusement rather than the rage that he had expected.“I do not require your cooperation, only your submission.” Megatron replied, “Whether I receive it willingly or take it by force is for you to decide.”This story is a sequel toSignature, which should be read first if you want to catch up on the details behind Megatron's handling of his human captive.
Relationships: Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky, Megatron & Sam Witwicky, Megatron/Sam Witwicky
Series: Signature [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560772
Comments: 1314
Kudos: 633





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up immediately after Signature ended. Please be advised that this story will contain darker elements than its prequel, as it explores themes of captivity, torture, captor bonding, and survivor's guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FRIENDLY WARNING:** I answer a lot of questions in the comments, and that includes some major spoilers. Read with caution. 
> 
> **Chapter Warning:** \- Canon typical violence

The first thing that filtered through Sam’s consciousness upon waking was the sound of a distant roar. He lifted his head slowly, blinking in disorientation at his surroundings. In front of him was a complicated control panel, with an assortment of gauges, switches, and blinking lights. Above the control panel, extending over and around him, was a clear canopy that provided an unobstructed view of the night’s sky. He turned his head and felt hard plastic cut into his nose and cheeks. Sam raised his hands in confusion, his questing fingers coming to rest on a flight mask that was affixed to his face with heavy straps. Instinctively, he pulled at the buckles on the apparatus, trying to get it off.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Megatron rumbled dryly.

All at once, Sam’s memories of the evening slammed into him. His heart lodged itself in his throat, his breath coming in shallow gasps as panic overtook him in an instant. Sam grabbed at the mask, fingers clawing at the straps on his face, as he bucked against the harness that restrained him. Megatron tolerated his panicked thrashing until Sam’s nails drew blood, and then the chest harness tightened painfully, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

“Enough.”

Megatron held him until Sam’s movements slowed, and then the harness loosened to the point where he could breathe again. He gasped desperately, pulling air into his starving lungs as the spots in his vision faded away. After a long moment, Sam glanced around the cockpit of the fighter jet, struggling to control the panic twisting in his chest. Now that he was fully cognizant, Sam realized that he _hurt_. His body ached from the exertion of his abortive retreat into the jungle, but his head was the source of his misery. A headache pounded at his temples, and Sam recognized this particular brand of hell as the aftereffects of mental over-exertion.

“What’s wrong with you?” Megatron asked matter-of-factly. Sam narrowed his eyes at the control panel in front of him, refusing to speak. After a long moment of tense silence, the harness tightened minutely, and Sam recognized the threat for what it was. He knew that he was hypoglycemic—could feel it in the weakness of his body and the clamminess of his skin—but he wouldn’t tell Megatron anything.

Megatron rumbled thoughtfully, and then Sam felt himself pulled forward slightly as the jet slowed. He could see the stars shifting through the clear canopy, and then the horizon became visible in the distance as the jet descended abruptly. At the same time, the oxygen mask fell into his lap, released of its own accord.

“You need fast-acting sugars.” Megatron said, and Sam grimaced deeply. If Sam knew that he was hypoglycemic, then of course, Megatron did too.

“Feel free to drop me off at the nearest 7-11.” He rasped.

Rather than deigning to reply, a first-aid kit popped out of subspace and landed hard in Sam’s lap. He grunted at the impact, staring at the white box in surprise. He made no move to open it.

“I can have Scalpel assist, if you prefer.” Megatron rumbled lowly, irritation bleeding into his voice. Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat, panic threatening to overtake him again. _Anything but that._

“No, thank-you.” He managed to reply after a moment, prying open the lid of the first-aid kit with trembling hands. The kit contained standard items—gauze, bandages, antiseptic, adhesive tape—but it also contained a nondescript bottle of fluids. Upon inspection, he realized that it was an electrolyte beverage. He grimaced, pondering the implications of Megatron having a first-aid kit in his subspace in the first place, when he started to drink. It tasted awful, like salty lemonade, but Sam finished it without complaint.

He felt Megatron _nudge_ him across their bond impatiently, and Sam flinched away from the unwelcome contact. The Decepticon leader was the antithesis of Ratchet’s mental presence—cold and harsh, with a dangerous edge—but his spark signature was something else entirely. It shone like a crystal sculpture in his mind, striking and magnificent. 

With a painful lurch, Sam realized that it reminded him of Optimus’ spark signature.

He felt Megatron’s anger swell up through their bond and he cringed away. Sam was fully aware that he was at the whims of a capricious warlord with a penchant for torture.

“Then you would do well to remain silent.”

Sam pulled away from Megatron’s mental presence as far as the bond would allow, placing the empty bottle back in the first-aid kit and closing the lid securely. A moment later, the kit disappeared, tucked back into subspace. He sat quietly, trepidation and fear building steadily in his gut, until he could bear it no longer.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I have considered it.” Megatron replied.

The warlord’s tone was strangely disinterested, as though he were trying to decide between tea or coffee. Sam felt his stomach twist itself in knots, and something compelled him to state with stark sincerity, “I won’t cooperate. Whatever it is you want, you aren’t going to get it.”

To Sam’s surprise, his words were met with dry amusement rather than the rage that he had expected.

“I do not require your cooperation, only your submission.” Megatron replied, “Whether I receive it willingly or take it by force is for you to decide.”

Before Sam could reply, he felt Megatron’s mental presence shift forward with intent. He resisted as well as he was able, but it was only a moment later that he was plunged back into the depths of stasis.

* * *

The next time that Sam awoke, he was mind-numbingly cold.

He groaned softly, rolling onto his side as he squinted his eyes open. The room that he was in was large and empty, a cavernous space of alien design. Thick metal tubing snaked over the walls, twisting every so often to plunge into the floor or the ceiling. The interior structure of the room was made of dull metal that was etched with whorls and eddies. Pot lights were sunk into the walls at even intervals, bathing the room in weak orange light.

He pushed his hands underneath him, forcing himself unsteadily to his feet. He was at the far end of the room, opposite to the wall that contained a towering Transformer-sized door. As Sam stepped forward, he encountered a barrier of transparent blue energy, which extended all the way to the walls on either side of the room. He frowned deeply, reaching out a hand to brush against the barrier. It tingled unpleasantly and was as solid as steel. Sam followed the barrier to the wall, and then followed the wall around the space, until he came back to the energy barrier. His cell—and there was no doubt in Sam’s mind that was exactly where he found himself—was large, perhaps a quarter of the size of the Hive’s receiving room. It was also completely empty except for a strange well-like contraption in the far corner. Upon further inspection, Sam realized that it was a waste disposal system, and his face twisted in a grimace.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, rubbing his palms quickly over his skin. It was uncomfortably cold in the room, perhaps five or ten degrees Celsius, and Sam was dressed only in a button-down shirt and jeans. He glanced down at himself, noting the blood and grime all down the front of his clothes. Somehow, he doubted that Megatron would feel inclined to provide him with a change of clothing anytime soon.

After a moment, Sam turned his mind outwards, fully expecting to be trapped within the confines of a Creator bond. To his surprise, the neural network was fully accessible, although it was quiet and still. To the best of his ability, he could sense no spark signatures in his immediate vicinity. The realization made his heart start to beat harder in his chest. Since the time that he had on-lined after Ripcord’s attack, he had never been truly alone. The sudden emptiness of the neural network was completely disconcerting.

Sam paced the large room for an interminable time—it must have been hours, but there was no way for him to tell. His watch and his cellphone had been taken while he was in stasis, and there were no windows in the room to help him gauge the passage of time. Sam’s panic ebbed and flowed as he paced. He had no idea where he was. He was reasonably sure that he was on the _Nemesis,_ but whether he was still on Earth was anyone’s guess. He could hear the distant hum of machinery, which he assumed was the ship’s engines, but he could not tell what their pitch and volume meant. They could have been parked on Diego Garcia or hurtling towards Cybertron at light speed, it was impossible to say.

He also did not know how long it had been since his capture. Megatron had forced him into stasis twice, and Sam had no recollection of his time spent unconscious. He was reasonably sure that it hadn’t been very long, because his bladder was just starting to get uncomfortable. Perhaps four or five hours, maybe longer.

The memory of the beach made his throat close up in emotion, and he blinked rapidly to try to keep the tears at bay. In the moments before Megatron had forced him into stasis, he had felt Ratchet’s rage and his abject powerlessness. Sam instinctively reached towards their connection, but the Creator bond was dark and still. What had happened after he had been taken? Had the Decepticons retreated? Or had they continued their assault? Were his friends all right? Were they even alive?

Sam stumbled back until he collided against the wall of his cell. His heart was pounding again, his breath coming in strangled gasps until dark spots crowded the edges of his vision. He was fucked, he was so completely fucked. He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping his hair until his scalp ached.

He stayed like that for a long time, until the fire of his panic had burned itself out again, leaving numbness in its wake. Eventually he curled up against the wall of his cell, wrapping his arms around his torso and pulling his legs up to his chest to try to conserve his body heat. The temperature in the room was falling steadily, and eventually he could make out the faint puff of his breath in the air. Sam felt choked by sudden despair, and he wondered fleetingly whether he was going to freeze to death, alone in this room.

All of a sudden, he felt a flicker on the neural network. Sam lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he turned his attention inwards. After a long moment, there was another flicker, and he frowned in confusion. It wasn’t a spark signature as he understood it—it was smaller and less luminous, like a candle flame compared to a supernova—but it was definitely there, and moving steadily closer.

Abruptly, the door to the hangar slid open. For a brief moment, Sam could see outside of the room—the corridor was bright and similarly alien in appearance, with cables and tubing exposed on the walls—before the door slid shut. By the time that his eyes had re-adjusted to the dim light of the room, he was able to make out the lithe form of Ravage stalking towards his cell.

Sam stiffened from head to toe, familiar fear licking up his spine at the sight of the graceful predator. Its body gleamed in the low light of the large space, its silver panels glinting as it prowled closer to the energy barrier. Ravage’s singular red optic focused on him as it approached, and Sam narrowed his eyes in return.

“I thought you were dead.” Sam’s voice was a dry rasp, barely more than a whisper, and Ravage flicked its tail in response.

“My Master retrieved me after the battle. He was able to prevent me from off-lining.”

Sam jerked back in surprise. He had never heard the symbiont speak before, and her smooth, feminine register took him aback. It was completely at odds with the vicious personality that he had come to associate with the large cat.

Sam felt, rather than heard, Ravage’s quiet chuckle.

“I have not had cause to speak to you before.” She said, responding to his thoughts. Sam grimaced and pulled the egress filter over his mind, too exhausted to attempt a firewall.

“Well, feel free to keep the tradition alive.”

She tilted her head at him, as a cat might regard a mouse, before stepping towards the energy barrier. As Sam watched, the blue blockade shimmered and then disappeared. Ravage stepped across the threshold of his cell, and once she had passed, the barrier snapped back to life. He sat up straighter, tensing nervously as she approached.

“What do you want?” He demanded, fear making his voice sharp. 

“I have been tasked by my Master to ensure that you are well.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, anger replacing his fear in an instant.

“If Megatron was concerned about my well-being, then he wouldn't have dumped me in a goddamn freezer.”

Ravage tilted her head considerately as she approached, her visage one of curious contemplation. Sam pressed back against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to hide his apprehension.

“Megatron is not my Master, human. I serve Soundwave.”

Ravage stopped directly in front of him, her feline face with its single red optic only inches away. Sam knew that his vital signs were betraying his fear and anxiety, but he swallowed dryly before pinning her with a flat stare.

“Well, you can tell Soundwave that I’m not buying whatever it is that he’s selling.”

This time, Ravage laughed softly.

“The other cassettes will be amused by you, I think.” She rumbled, “Except perhaps Laserbeak, but she is loathe not to be the center of our Master’s attention.”

Without warning, Ravage stepped forward and curled herself around Sam’s body. He cried out in surprise, jerking back as his hands flew out to push against her flanks. She lowered herself down, leaning against him as her head came to rest by his side. Sam’s heart was pounding in his throat by the time that she settled, but then he realized all at once that she was _warm_. His breath stuttered out of him in surprise as heat soaked into his numb body.

For a moment, he had a mind to push her off him—to fight, to protest, to do anything other than sit there passively—but he was too cold and the warmth felt too nice. So he stayed where he was, neither leaning forward nor pulling away, and allowed the heat of her chassis to soak into him. It was not long before the aches in his body were soothed away, replaced with a leaden tiredness. He blinked hard, trying to keep a grip on himself, but there was no helping it. He was exhausted in body and mind, and it was not long before he nodded off to the sound of Ravage’s rumbling purr.

* * *

Sam dreamed in flashes of memory and emotion.

Ratchet huffing at him exasperatedly, their bond swelling with tender affection.

Sunstreaker crouched in front of him, solemn and serious, as he offered Sam a shoulder to lean on.

Optimus’ disapproval, as Doval rambled on about the unknown mechanoid.

Bumblebee’s keening wail, anguished and mournful. _Sam, please come back to me—_

Sam jerked awake, his heart in his throat. He blinked blearily for the space of several seconds, confused and disoriented, before his memories came back to him. He swallowed hard, despair taking the place of the frenzied panic that had been his constant companion since he awoke in Megatron’s cockpit. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, glancing over his shoulder at Ravage’s prone form. Sometime during his restless slumber, he had slid down the wall to curl against the symbiont, drawn to her pleasant warmth. He sat up, pressing back against the wall with a grimace.

Ravage raised her head to regard him with her singular red optic.

“You feel things keenly, human.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, flushing hotly as he drew the egress filter back over his mind.

“Mind your business.”

Ravage’s tail flicked from where it lay curled around his hip. He pushed away until he was no longer touching any part of the symbiont.

“Until my Master tells me otherwise, you are my business.”

Sam’s flush deepened in anger and he pushed himself to his feet, stepping around the symbiont. Ravage rolled onto her side as she watched him walk stiffly away, her tail flicking lazily.

“What time is it?” Sam demanded, eventually. Ravage tilted her head, and he clarified without prompting, “On Diego Garcia. What time is it?”

Ravage seemed to consider his question before she replied, “It is fifteen hundred hours local time on the Autobot base.” Sam did the math and realized that, if Ravage was telling the truth, then it was three o’clock in the afternoon. The base had been attacked just after midnight. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, his stomach twisting in knots.

“What happened? During the attack?”

Ravage’s optic narrowed minutely, as the flicking of her tail becoming more pronounced.

“If you wish to know what happened to the Autobots, you will have to ask your Master.”

Sam bristled from head to toe, spinning on his heel to glare at her, “Megatron is _not_ my Master.”

Ravage’s visage seemed to soften—in pity, Sam realized abruptly.

“Megatron breaks all of his servants to his will eventually. Your defiance will only prolong and deepen your suffering.”

Sam’s heart was beating hard against his ribs now, the familiar sense of panic threatening to overwhelm him. Eventually, he managed to hiss, “Get out.”

Rather than ignore him, as he had expected, Ravage dipped her head in acquiescence and padded towards the energy barrier at the forefront of his cell. After she slipped through, and the barrier had re-established itself, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Reflect on my words, human.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, but the symbiont merely turned and walked towards the large doors at the end of the hangar. The doors opened of their own accord, spilling bright light into the dim room, before closing and leaving Sam alone once again.

Sam breathed out a shaky sigh, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. The room was warmer now, although he was still uncomfortably cold. It was not long before his bodily imperatives began to make themselves felt. With a deep grimace, Sam used (what he hoped was) the waste disposal system in the far corner, and then settled back against the wall of his cell. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, but it was his thirst that was on the forefront of his mind. His mouth was bone dry, and his throat clicked every time that he swallowed.

In the silence of the empty hangar, with nothing but his thoughts and the hum of distant machinery for company, Sam’s mind inevitably turned back to his companions. His throat closed up at the memory of his last words to Bumblebee. He couldn’t imagine what the yellow scout was going through right now. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would blame himself for Sam’s capture, especially after Sam had pleaded for him to stay. He took a shaky breath, pressing his forehead into his arms as he struggled to get himself under control. With a conscious effort, Sam pushed the thoughts of Bumblebee and Ratchet aside. He couldn’t shoulder their devastation and his own as well if he wanted to make it out of this in one piece.

He had to be smart.

Sam distracted himself as best he could, playing word association games and talking quietly to himself. It helped to take the edge off his panic, but the fear and anxiety were omnipresent at the edge of his mind. His thirst had become painful, a constant burning in the back of his throat. Combined with the chill of the room, he was both physically and emotionally miserable. He must have fallen asleep eventually, for all of a sudden the neural network flared brightly in his mind, startling him awake.

He hastily drew the egress filter over his mind, wrapping it around himself as tightly as he was able. As he watched, spark signatures flared to life on the neural network, one after the other. He recognized Megatron’s icy glow, but the others were unfamiliar to him. He felt leaden fear settle into his gut as he realized that the Decepticons had returned.

He sat perfectly still and in complete silence, the egress filter drawn closely over his mental presence. The spark signatures dispersed in pairs and trios, making their way through the depths of the _Nemesis_. After a long while, Megatron’s spark signature separated from the others and began to approach. It was joined shortly by a copper-red signature, which fell into place beside him. Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat, but he didn’t move an inch.

After an agonizing wait, which was likely only the better part of ten minutes, the large doors on the opposite end of the hangar hissed open. Megatron stepped into the room, followed closely by two mechanoids that Sam had never seen before. The first was a shorter mech, lithe and slender, with bright red plating and yellow-rimmed wheels. He walked with a swagger, one hand on his hip and the other motioning expressively to his companion. With a start, Sam realized that he could not feel the third mechanoid’s spark signature on the neural network. This mechanoid was taller and broad-framed, plated entirely in silver with a single red optic burning brightly over a solid visor that covered the lower portion of its face.

Sam’s stomach bottomed out as he recognized the silver mechanoid from data files that he had read about Cybertron. _Soundwave_.

The three Decepticons approached the energy barrier, which shimmered and then disappeared of its own accord. Sam forced himself to stand as Megatron approached, his entire body tense and wary. The Decepticon leader stopped just meters away from him, staring down with an unnervingly calculating expression on his faceplates.

“I need something from you, boy.” He said without preamble, “The extent that it causes you damage will depend on how much you resist me.”

Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat in an instant, “Wh—what?”

Rather than reply, Megatron rumbled towards Soundwave, who stepped forward as Sam took a hasty step back. All of a sudden, the Decepticon leader’s presence flared brightly along their bond and Sam cried out in surprise as his mental presence forced its way into Sam’s mind. It was an incredibly intense and invasive sensation, far beyond anything that he had experienced when Ratchet entered his mind.

 _//Be still, boy.//_ Megatron commanded, but the voice came from inside his head, and Sam struggled in response. It was a violation of the basest nature, and though he writhed in Megatron’s mental grip, the warlord held him easily. Sam could feel a spike of _intent_ from across their bond, and then Megatron _twisted_ —

It was as though he were flaying Sam’s mind apart, prying it open and holding it there. Panic and desperation flooded through him in an instant, and he twisted in an attempt to escape the pain.

 _//Submit to me, and the pain will cease.//_ Megatron’s harsh voice cut through his mind, and Sam struggled to obey. After a long moment, he was able to force himself to relax, and the pain receded in response. He felt a spike of satisfaction from Megatron, and then another presence entered his mind. Sam cried out, in shock and in fear, as Soundwave ran mental fingers over every inch of him. Suddenly, the surveillance chief pulled back as though in surprise.

_//Observation: the human has spark bonded.//_

Megatron’s mental presence swelled in incandescent rage at the pronouncement, and his mental fingers sank painfully into Sam’s mind.

 _//Who?//_ The Decepticon leader demanded, and Sam was confused by the possessive jealousy in his tone.

_//Autobot: Designation, Bumblebee.//_

Sam felt himself go cold all over. Heedless of the potential consequences of his actions, he drew himself up and lashed out Soundwave with all of his mental strength. His attack landed, to their combined surprise, before Megatron pinned Sam beneath his mental weight. Sam struggled, fear and rage lending him strength.

_//Don’t you dare—don’t you fucking dare touch him!//_

Over his abject rage, Sam could feel Megatron’s thoughtful consideration across their bond. There was a touch in his mind, too impartial to be considered a caress, and then Megatron rumbled at him reassuringly.

_//Be calm, boy. No one will harm your bonded.//_

The words—and the feeling of _sincerity_ that accompanied them—pulled Sam up short. Before he could reply, however, he felt Megatron turn his attention back to Soundwave.

_//Find it for me.//_

Soundwave’s mental fingers sank into the depths of Sam’s mind. Restrained as he was by Megatron, there was nothing that Sam could do but suffer the invasion. After a long moment, he felt an uncomfortable rifling sensation, and then Sam found himself dropped into the depths of a memory.

_Sam shifted as Ratchet completed his medical scans, anxious to learn about the Allspark energy that radiated from his cells._

_“Well, give it to me straight. How bad is it?” Sam asked._

_“You are in perfect health. I can find no signs that you ever had a concussion, let alone that you are supposedly suffering from the after-effects of one.”_

_Sam huffed an exasperated sigh, “That’s not what I meant.”_

_“The Allspark signature is stronger.” Ratchet confirmed to Sam’s dismay, “There has been a 0.4 percent increase in its signal strength since my original scan on the Theodore Roosevelt.”_

There was a dizzying shift, a disorienting sensation of movement, and then Sam found himself in the brig of the _Ark,_ staring as Ripcord’s optics widened in fanatical devotion.

_“I’m not the Allspark.” Sam snapped, discomfort sharpening his words. Before Ripcord could reply, Optimus stepped in front of Sam and stared down at the analyst with narrowed optics._

_“Fulfill your end of the bargain, Ripcord.” Prime commanded, and Sam felt himself shiver at the steel in his tone. He stepped back, pressing close to Bumblebee who crouched down beside him. Ripcord regarded him with open curiosity, before glancing back to Optimus._

_“Let me feel his spark signature.” Ripcord said instead, apropos of nothing._

_“Never.” Ratchet growled._

_“That was not a part of the bargain. Tell me what you know, or you will spend the remainder of your existence in stasis lock, as your systems slowly offline.”_

_Sam was taken aback, both by Autobot leader’s threat and by the promise in his tone. Ripcord seemed to consider his words, before he eventually lifted a pauldron in a weak shrug._

_“Lord Megatron wants the boy.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Why else would he want your human pet? For leverage, of course.” Ripcord tilted his helm, purring smoothly, “Although, I imagine that he also suspects the boy is a Prime.”_

There was another dizzying shift, and memories flashed by too quickly for him to process. Sam staring at Ratchet in disbelief as the medic explained that he had stopped aging. Sam’s indescribable joy as his spark bond flared to life, and Bumblebee’s mental presence filled his mind. Optimus’ quiet regret as he explained how Primes were chosen, and his vow to respect Sam’s choice.

Sam felt Megatron’s dark rumble, _//Follow that memory back to Egypt.//_

And then Soundwave was taking him back, his memories flashing by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of image and emotion. Terror licked up his spine as he suddenly found himself in the strange dreamscape of the Primes.

“No!” He cried, fighting against Megatron's mental hold. He could feel Megatron’s open interest as he watched the memory unfold, ignoring Sam’s protests completely.

_Sam stepped forward, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light in front of him._

_“Where am I? Am I dead?”_

_As he watched, figures began to materialize out of the light—towering, and dignified, and indescribably_ ancient.

_“We have been watching you, a long, long time. You have fought for Optimus, our last descendant, with courage and with sacrifice, the virtues of a leader—a leader worthy of our secret. The Matrix of Leadership is not found, it is earned. Return now, and bring the Matrix to Optimus. Merge it with his spark. It is, and always has been, your destiny.”_

Megatron’s presence swelled in savage satisfaction as the memory faded away. Abruptly, Sam found himself back within the hangar, lying supine on the floor, choking on the blood that streamed from his nose. The red Decepticon knelt beside him, a grimace of distaste on his faceplates as he rolled Sam onto his side. Sam coughed wetly, splattering blood against the cold metal in front of him. The red Decepticon pulled a strange metallic-like cloth from subspace and held it against Sam’s face. Sam raised a trembling hand, pressing the cloth against his nose as he breathed weakly through his mouth. He felt like he had been put through a meat grinder—every inch of his body hurt, and his mind burned like it had been scoured with acid.

“Tend to him.” Megatron ordered the red mechanoid curtly, before turning and striding out of the hangar. Soundwave glanced down at Sam briefly before turning to follow his Master. As soon as the two Decepticons were gone from sight, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the tears that had been threatening him since he had awoken in Megatron’s cockpit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much to everyone who commented/left kudos/bookmarked and/or subscribed! I am truly appreciative for all of your support. Like Signature, this story will be a bit of a slow burn. Megatron is playing the long game with Sam.
> 
>  **Chapter Warning** \- Canon typical violence

The red mechanoid glanced down at him with a grimace.

“Come on, get up.”

He hooked his servos under Sam’s armpits and pulled him into a sitting position. Sam’s head fell forward as he struggled to breathe through the pain in his head and the blood in his sinuses. His tears made tracks through the grime and sweat on his cheeks, but he did not make a sound.

“That was bad, no point in denying it. Name’s Knock Out, by the way.” The red mechanoid introduced himself, pulling the cloth away from Sam’s face. His optics narrowed considerately as he tipped Sam’s head back, tilting his face this way and that, “You’ll live, but you’ll probably wish that you hadn’t for a while.”

“Don’t touch me.” Sam rasped, jerking his head away.

“Sorry, Lord Megatron’s orders.” Knock Out replied. Sam narrowed his eyes at the mechanoid’s sardonic tone. 

“Fuck Megatron and fuck you too.” He hissed. Knock Out’s optics widened noticeably before he glanced towards the doors at the opposite end of the hangar.

“Primus, kid. Do you have a death wish?”

Sam tried to shove the red mechanoid away from him, but he may as well have been shoving at a block of granite for all the good that it did him.

“What can I say? Excruciating pain makes me bold.”

Knock Out huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking his helm minutely. “You got pistons, kid.”

Sam pinched the cloth against his nose, his head pitched forward as he waited for the bleeding to stop. Knock Out made a thoughtful noise and subspaced a bottle of water, which he handed to Sam without comment. Sam grabbed it, holding it between his knees as he twisted the cap off with one hand. He took a swig, swishing out his mouth, before spitting the water on the floor.

Knock Out made a moue of distaste.

“You are very… organic.”

Something about the Decepticon’s tone reminded Sam painfully of Roddy, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The red and yellow scout had been frequently taken aback by Sam’s humanisms when he had first arrived on base. Add to that Knock Out’s paint job and his effusive manner, and Sam found himself feeling abruptly homesick.

“Hot Rod, huh? I’ll take that. He’s a fine looking mechanoid.”

Sam glanced up at Knock Out in surprise, before he realized that his mind was completely exposed. He grimaced, reaching for an egress filter before recoiling away in pain. The simple action had caused agony to lash across his mind like a bullwhip.

“Easy, kid. Your neural connections got a real once-over. Give yourself some time to heal.”

“Don’t call me kid,” Sam ground out harshly, “and stay out of my head.”

Knock Out shrugged, “Not a lot of privacy to be had on a warship, I’m afraid.”

Sam glared at him balefully, before pulling the cloth away from his face. The bleeding had reduced to a trickle, he noticed, before pinching the cloth back over his nose. He continued to breathe shallowly in and out of his mouth, willing the blinding pain in his head to recede. Abruptly, Sam felt Knock Out’s mental presence brush against him. Before he could protest, the Decepticon pushed forward and smoothed over his spark signature. The touch felt pleasant, like a cool hand on a feverish brow, and Sam glanced up at him in surprise.

Knock Out lifted a pauldron in a shrug, “I’m a medic.”

The words were like a slap in the face, and Sam flinched back in both body and mind.

“Get out of my head.” He repeated through gritted teeth. He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug.

“Suit yourself, but that’s the best I can do I’m afraid.”

“Next time, just give me an aspirin.”

Knock Out’s expression sharpened minutely, his optics roving over Sam’s face.

“You don’t get it, do you?” He asked after a long moment, his voice equal parts surprised and sympathetic, “There’s no pain relief here. Megatron believes that pain is an effective teacher, and the longer that you suffer its presence, the more likely you are to learn your lesson.”

Sam flinched, his eyes dropping to the floor. If Megatron thought that pain was an effective teacher, then he had just given Sam a fucking education. He heard Knock Out chuckle quietly, and Sam took a tentative drink of water. When his stomach didn’t protest, he took a longer drink as he pulled the cloth away from his face. The bleeding had finally stopped. He made to hand the cloth back to Knock Out, but the medic held up his servos restrainingly.

“Uh, you keep it.”

Sam scoffed lightly, shoving the scrap of cloth into his pocket.

“How did you get saddled with me if you can’t stand the sight of blood?” He asked, taking another drink of water. The water was room temperature and stale, but it tasted like heaven.

Knock Out crossed his arms over his chest, tossing his head in annoyance.

“Well, Megatron certainly wasn’t about to hand you over to Hook, and Scalpel would be just as likely to try and disassemble you as to treat you.”

At the name of the little symbiont, Sam shuddered from head to toe. He took another drink of water to try to disguise his discomfort, but of course, Knock Out could feel his fear and trepidation through the neural network.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that the two of you are acquainted.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the medic’s sardonic tone, irritation flashing through him in an instant.

“I’m glad I can be a source of amusement for you.”

Knock Out shrugged again, gesturing around them vaguely, “There’s not a lot of entertainment to be found on a warship, either.”

Sam took another long drink of water, finishing the bottle. To his surprise, Knock Out held out his servo expectantly, and after a moment, Sam handed the bottle back to him. The medic subspaced the plastic, pushing to his feet as he stared down at him.

“Try to avoid any mental exertion for a while.” He said at last, and his voice was not unkind.

“How long?” Sam asked, keenly aware of the constantly shifting mental presences on the neural network. Knock Out shrugged, already walking towards the large doors on the opposite side of the room. When he passed the deep groove lined into the floor, the transparent blue barrier shimmered back to life.

“I’m not a Creator mechanoid, so I can’t say exactly. Avoid it until it stops hurting, would be my medical advice.”

Sam snorted, wincing immediately as the gesture pulled at the blood drying in his sinuses. Knock Out crossed the room, pausing only long enough for the doors to open, and then he was gone. As soon as the medic disappeared from sight, Sam pushed himself to his feet and walked back to the wall. By the time that he sank to the floor, his head was pounding worse than any headache that he had had in his life. Sam leaned against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest, suddenly thankful for the coolness of the room. He sat there for a long while, breathing shallowly as his head throbbed in time to his heartbeat. Over time, the pounding in his head softened to a painful ache.

The whole while that he suffered, Sam was aware of Megatron’s presence across their bond. He stayed as far away from the brilliant signature as he could manage, making himself as unobtrusive as possible. He was surprised that Megatron had not confined him to the Creator bond or separated their minds with a mental block. Neither of these facts fit with what he understood about the Decepticon leader. He was aware of Megatron’s distraction, his attention directed elsewhere. Sam wondered briefly if his intense focus had anything to do with the confirmation that Sam was a Prime.

Suddenly, Sam became aware of two spark signatures that were rapidly approaching him. One shone like the North Star, glittering and cold, while the other was softer, wispy white as high-altitude cirrus clouds. He frowned, raising his head to stare across the room expectantly. A short while later, the doors at the opposite end of the hangar slid open, and two mechanoids strode into the room. Sam’s heart rate kicked into double-time at the sight of Starscream and Thundercracker walking towards his cell.

“You look good in a cage, boy.” Starscream chuckled darkly. Sam felt himself flush as he realized that Starscream had come there to gloat. All of his fear and dread evaporated in an instant, subsumed by cold anger. After all that he had lost and suffered, Sam would be damned before he would meekly endure the Seeker’s smug satisfaction. 

“Get fucked, Starscream.” He hissed.

The Seeker jerked back slightly, his optics narrowing in tightly leashed indignation.

“I am a Prince of Vos, you little ape. Know your place.”

“Pardon me. Get fucked, your majesty.”

Starscream made a strangled sound of rage, but before he could reply, Thundercracker laughed loudly. The blue and silver mechanoid shoved jovially at Starscream, who glared at him in response.

“Knock Out said you had a mouth on you.” Thundercracker chuckled, crouching down on the other side of the energy barrier. Sam tore his eyes away from Starscream to look at the Seeker, his eyes narrowed in contempt.

“I have nothing to say to you.” He managed, voice low and tight. Thundercracker tilted his head considerately, as though in surprise.

“Is this about the beach? It was nothing personal.”

Sam flushed crimson in anger, leaning forward slightly from his seated position.

“You almost killed Hot Rod and I was in the hospital ward for days. That feels pretty personal to me.”

Starscream scoffed, folding his arms across his chassis, “It wouldn’t have been ‘almost’ if Ripcord was worth his weight in scrap metal.”

Sam frowned at the mention of the analyst. All at once, he realized what it was that the former priest had been attempting to do when he had invaded Sam’s mind—Ripcord had been trying to establish a Creator bond. Not for the first time, Sam felt a swell of relief that Ironhide had put him down.

Starscream scoffed again.

“I never thought that towering waste of tin could do anything worthwhile, but he has my thanks for off-lining that useless sycophant.”

Sam glanced back at Starscream, anger burning through him as he realized that the Seeker was following his train of thought. Sam shoved at his mental presence, wincing in pain as he did so.

“It’s not like you have any room to criticize someone for being a sycophant, Starscream.”

The Seeker regarded him for a long moment, disdain written all over his faceplates. Rather then return the insult, however, he stared at Sam as though in consideration.

“I’m going to enjoy watching Megatron break you, human. I’ll cherish the memory files for eons to come.”

To his surprise, Thundercracker glanced sidelong at Starscream in disapproval. He warbled something to the other Seeker in clipped Cybertronian, before turning back to Sam. Starscream rolled his optics, but he did not reply.

“It’s war, little Prime. Battles happen, causalities happen, but circumstances can change.”

Sam’s eyes snapped to the blue and silver Seeker, his breath freezing in his lungs.

“Don’t call me that.”

Sensing his vulnerability, Starscream’s faceplates shifted into a cruel pantomime of concern.

“Does that title not sit well with you, little Prime? Would you prefer Allspark, perhaps? Human? Fleshbag? Filthy little organic? Stop me when I get warm.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Seeker.

“Primus himself couldn’t stop you once you get going, Starscream.”

Thundercracker laughed again, his expression openly amused. Sam felt the Seeker reach forward, brushing against Sam’s mental presence with soft fingers. Sam flinched in response, the gentleness of the touch so disconcerting that it felt like an attack. Thundercracker’s expression stilled, a frown pulling at his faceplates.

“No one is going to hurt you.” He said carefully, looking at Sam as one might regard a wild animal. Sam barked a harsh laugh, but there was no amusement in it. His head still pounded from Megatron’s earlier assault.

“That was a punishment.” Thundercracker said, his tone suggesting that the fact was self-evident. Sam did not reply—he could not reply over the emotion that choked him. Thundercracker stared at him for a moment longer, before straightening and pulling some items from subspace. The energy barrier between them shimmered and disappeared, but Sam did not react. The Seeker stepped forward, crouching down in front of him as he pushed a bottle of water and a small, flat package towards him.

“You do not need to believe me, Sam. In time, you’ll see.”

At the sound of his name, Sam flinched as though he had been struck. Somehow, it was far worse than the various titles and slurs that had been directed his way since he had awoken here. It was too familiar—too real.

Thundercracker regarded him, his expression closed off and serious, before straightening to his full height. As he walked over the groove etched into the floor, the energy barrier snapped back to life. He looked at Starscream, warbling something in Cybertronian. The Vosian prince scoffed lightly, but turned on his heel and followed his trinemate. Sam sat perfectly still, watching them leave. Only after the doors had slid shut behind them, did Sam glance down at the floor. Thundercracker had left a non-descript bottle of water and an individually package meal ration. Sam stared down at the MRE in surprise—it looked the same as the ones he had seen on base, right down to the bold lettering across the front that read “Meal, Ready-to-Eat, Individual”.

Sam twisted the cap off the bottle of water, drinking slowly, before he tore the top off the MRE. Tonight’s meal was meatloaf and mashed potatoes, he noted with a grimace. Although MREs were a nutritionally and calorically complete meal, they were generally intended to be heated prior to eating. Sam took a tentative bite, surprised that it was somewhat less repulsive than he was anticipating. He huffed a quiet laugh as he took another bite. Lennox and Epps had shared their opinions about MREs often and at great volume over the years. In all the time that he had spent around military types, only Killian Anderson had ever expressed any sort of fondness for the rations.

Sam’s smile faded away as he realized that he didn’t know whether they were dead or alive. The last time that he had seen Will, the Major had ordered Wheeljack to take him into the depths of the forest. The last time that he had seen Killian, the Lieutenant had been kneeling over Dave Carter’s prone form as he stemmed the flow of blood from the agent’s chest.

Abruptly, Sam dropped the MRE as though he had been burned. He glanced reflexively down at his hands and noticed the dried blood embedded under his fingernails and around his cuticles. With a sickening lurch, he realized that he did not know whether the blood was his or Dave’s. The room seemed to pan away as he stared at his hands, his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. He grabbed the bottle of water, heedless of his thirst, and poured it over his hands. He scrubbed his fingers against his shirt, his jeans, frantically trying to clean the blood away.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, rubbing his hands against the fabric of his clothing and gasping desperately. Eventually, Sam noticed movement in his field of vision and he flinched violently as Ravage butted her head against his chest.

“Stop, you injure yourself.”

“Don’t touch me.” He managed, his voice strangled and tense. Ravage butted against him again, gentler this time, as she rubbed her head over his chest. He glanced down at his hands only to realize that the skin of his fingers had been chafed raw.

“The agent was alive, last we heard.” She rumbled, sitting on her haunches at his side with her head tucked against his neck. He flinched away, but she leaned into him.

“He could be dead.” He accused, hating the weakness in his voice. He wanted to rally against her, to scream and to fight, but he was too exhausted. Physically and emotionally.

“He fired on Reedman first. The microcon was under orders to take you without engaging the enemy.”

Sam laughed harshly, moving away from the symbiont. This time, she did not follow, merely staring at him with her ruby optic.

“Of course he did. He was protecting me.”

Ravage rumbled quietly, lowering onto her underchassis.

“An unwise decision. You were Megatron’s to claim.”

Sam’s head snapped towards her, his eyes narrowing in rage.

“Get this through your processor, Ravage. I’m not Megatron’s—not now, not ever.”

Ravage made a soft sound, not a scoff exactly, but certainly a sound of disapproval. Rather than press the issue, however, the large cyber cat rolled onto her side, curling her lower body around Sam’s legs.

“You should eat. It’s been too long since you’ve refueled.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her again, opening his mouth to tell her to fuck off, when his heart clenched painfully at a sudden realization. The last time that he had eaten had been with Ratchet in the mess hall, before everything had gone to shit. His breath stuttered out of him, as he turned his head to the side and struggled to get himself under control.

“What time is it?” He managed, after a long moment.

Ravage did not need to ask for clarification, “It is midnight on Diego Garcia.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. It had been almost one full day since he had been in Megatron’s control. Bumblebee would be frantic by now, he knew. Ratchet, on the other hand, would be in an awful temper, unable to express himself in any other way. Instinctively, he reached for his bond with Bumblebee. It was quiet and still, and now that the pain in his head had receded to an uncomfortable throbbing, he was fully aware of the ache of their bond. It was like pressing against a bruise, painful and fruitless.

All at once, Sam knew a terrible feeling of despair. The days without Bumblebee on Diego Garcia had been awful, a colorless void of anxiety and longing. Now he was onboard the _Nemesis_ , surrounded by enemies and uncertain when he would see Bumblebee or the others again. Ravage rumbled lowly, leaning down to rest her head in his lap. It was a pleasant weight, warm and grounding. She ex-vented a shuddering huff, and warmth washed over his legs.

“You would do well to focus on the present. You need to eat.”

Sam wanted to push her away, to strike out at her, but he was too tired. Too lost.

“I’m not hungry.”

Ravage nipped his upper thigh, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to send a message.

“Your bonded and your medic would want you to eat.”

Sam flinched at her words. It was a low blow, but he knew that she was right. Bumblebee and Ratchet would want him to eat—to stay strong, to fight.

He twisted his torso, moving out from under the symbiont’s heavy head as he reached for the MRE. Without looking at her, he worked through the pre-packed meal methodically, chewing and swallowing without tasting a thing. When he was finished, he tossed the package aside, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth as his head fell back against the wall.

Ravage rumbled lowly in her chassis, a sound strangely reminiscent of a purr as she moved to lean against him. Sam lifted a knee up to block her, narrowing his eyes in anger.

“Don’t.”

Ravage stared at him for a long moment, her head tilted considerately, before she pushed up into a standing position. The large symbiont turned, stalking towards the energy barrier in perfect silence. It was not long before the double doors at the end of the hangar hissed closed behind her, and Sam found himself alone in the dim light of his cell.

In the hours that followed, Sam struggled to control the grief and despair that threatened to choke him. His mind turned inwards towards his bond with Bumblebee, pressing against the empty connection again and again. It did nothing to comfort him. The room grew colder as the night dragged on, and it was not long before Sam was curled against the wall of his cell, wrung out and miserable.

It was a long time before he drifted into a restless sleep.

* * *

Sam’s dreams were troubled, fleeting flashes of images and emotion.

There was fire and smoke, acrid in the air, as someone barked terse commands. A dizzying shift, and then there was the remnants of a building with soldiers swarming over the debris. The formed loose chains as they shifted the rubble aside, looking for survivors. Another blur of motion, and then trees were flashing by him on either side, the throaty roar of an engine shattering the false calm of pre-dawn.

Through it all, his grief burned brightly—

Sam jerked awake, blinking his eyes open in disorientation before making a strangled noise of surprise. Megatron was crouched in front of him, his arms resting loosely on his leg struts as the warlord stared down at him. As the remnants of Sam’s dream faded, Megatron’s presence filled his mind. There was nothing cruel or painful about the action, but the invasion was unwelcome. The silver mechanoid tilted his helm, his optics bright as he regarded the boy in front of him.

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, shrinking back against the wall. He had only ever been this close to Megatron a handful of times, and it had never ended well for him. The Decepticon leader rumbled lowly, something like consideration flickering across his faceplates, before he reached out a single sharp talon to hook under Sam’s chin. Sam made a strangled sound of fear as the Decepticon tilted his head up, the clawed digit pressing uncomfortably into the tender flesh of his underjaw.

“Your grief for your bonded is profound indeed, little one.”

Sam flinched minutely at the epithet, trying his best to stay perfectly still. When he did not reply, the tip of the clawed digit pressed deeper into his skin.

“Y—yeah.” He stuttered, hating the naked distress in his voice. Megatron rumbled thoughtfully, his mental presence reaching towards Sam’s bond with Bumblebee. In an instant, Sam surged forward to resist him, in both body and mind.

“No.”

“No?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Megatron. He must have hit his threshold for panic and despair, because he was suddenly feeling very unafraid.

“No. Not ever.”

Megatron’s mental presence shifted, and suddenly the warlord’s will pressed itself against Sam’s mind. Sam flinched as oily thoughts slipped into his consciousness, worming their way deep into his brain. He grit his teeth, his eyes watering under the assault.

_Oblige me, little one._

Sam wavered, every instinct in his body urging him to relent, to submit, to obey his Master—

He gasped, and with monumental effort, Sam pushed Megatron’s mental presence away.

“Never.” He hissed, glaring at the Decepticon, “You are not my Master.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed slightly, his presence restless and agitated, as though it wanted to lash out. After a breathless moment, the digit under his chin moved to stroke down the side of his face. Sam flinched at the caress, expecting it to turn violent any moment, but it did not.

“You’re a curious creature, Sam Witwicky.” Megatron rumbled, and Sam’s stomach twisted at the realization that his tone was almost _fond_ , “Very few have defied me and lived to tell the tale.”

“I thought you hadn’t decided whether to kill me.” He whispered boldly, his eyes locked unmovingly on Megatron’s optics. The warlord chuckled, but rather than deigning to reply, his mental presence pressed against his bond with Bumblebee once again. It was like massaging a wound, and Sam winced in response, but found himself unable to move against the warlord.

"The pain of separation is most unpleasant." Megatron rumbled, his voice oddly reflective. 

Sam bristled, as though he had been personally insulted.

“If the sensation doesn’t sit well with you, you’re welcome to drop of me off at Diego Garcia at your earliest convenience.”

The tip of Megatron’s taloned digit caressed down the side of Sam’s face once again, not leaving so much as a red mark in its wake.

“I think not.” He rumbled, staring down at Sam as though trying to solve a particularly vexing puzzle, “I will bring your bonded here instead.”

Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest, horror seizing him all at once.

“No. Megatron— _no_.”

He knew with certainty that Megatron would use Bumblebee against him. That he would abuse the scout in an effort to control Sam, and Sam knew that it would work. He would do anything to keep Bumblebee from the warlord’s cruelty. Megatron’s clawed digit moved to stroke down Sam’s back, and he realized that the gesture wasn’t gentle—it was possessive. Dominating.

All at once, Sam hoped that he never saw Bumblebee again. Not so long as he remained at Megatron’s mercy.

“You’ve done enough to him.” Sam said, managing to keep the tremor out of his voice. To his surprise, the warlord laughed, a quiet sound deep in his chassis.

“He told you about Tyger Pax.”

It was not a question, but a statement. Sam took great satisfaction in replying, “No, Optimus did.”

The clawed digit that was stroking up and down his back stilled, the tip digging painfully into Sam’s ribs.

“What else has Optimus Prime told you?”

The question was deceptively mild, and Sam could feel Megatron’s mental presence focusing on him intently. Keenly aware of the precariousness of his situation, Sam chose his words with care. 

“A lot.” He murmured, around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, “We talked often about Cybertron—about the Golden Age and the Great War.”

For a moment, Megatron seemed taken aback, as though he could not fathom why Optimus would share anything of their history with a human child. The surprise faded quickly, however, replaced by something like disdain.

“Of course he would. You’re a Prime—it is his duty to indoctrinate you.”

Sam jerked back, his eyes narrowing in anger.

“He wasn’t indoctrinating me.”

The claw pressing into his back turned sharp, and Sam made a soft noise in pain.

“Oh? What did he tell you about my ‘rebellion’?”

Sam hesitated. They had not spent a great deal of time talking about Megatron before the Great War, due largely in part to Sam’s reluctance to discuss the warlord. He knew that Megatron had been a gladiator who had risen through the ranks before launching his insurrection, but that was most of his knowledge.

Sam felt a swell of rage from the Decepticon leader, and he made a soft sound of fear in response. Rather than the expected pain, however, Megatron’s presence slowly turned thoughtful. Considering.

“That you are ignorant of the truth is Optimus’ fault, not your own. I will take steps to rectify that immediately.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the Decepticon leader, offended he would imply that Optimus had been anything other than truthful with his recollection of events. His anger made him bold, and he pinned the Decepticon with an openly hostile glare.

“Was he wrong when he said that you ripped out Bumblebee’s voice modulator? That you _tortured_ him?”

Megatron tilted his head, regarding Sam for a long moment before replying.

“No, he was not wrong. I used the scout to teach Optimus a lesson.”

Sam felt his anger burn brighter at the Decepticon’s plain tone. He tried to shift away from the talon that had resumed stroking down his back, but Megatron moved his servo to maintain contact between them.

“Is that what you’re doing with me?” He hissed, hatred in every syllable, “Teaching Optimus a lesson?”

Megatron chuckled lowly, as though amused by Sam’s naivety.

“No, little one. You are not a lesson. You’re mine, now and always.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for your kind support! I have read every comment and visited every person who left kudos and who bookmarked the story. I appreciate each and every one of you. 
> 
> **Chapter warning** : Mental torture, mental manipulation, unwanted touching, forced stripping.

Sam flinched at the possessiveness in Megatron’s tone, pulling away to press against the wall. Megatron regarded him for a long moment, amusement evident in the quirk of his mouthplates, before he rose to his full height.

“Come.”

The warlord turned and strode towards the opposite end of the hangar, pausing as he deactivated the energy barrier to glance over his shoulder expectantly. Sam hesitated, uncertainty and fear curdling in the pit of his stomach, until he became aware of Megatron’s impatience across their bond. Seeing no alternative, Sam pushed himself to his feet and made his way after the Decepticon leader. Megatron waited until he approached, and then he continued towards the large doors on the far side of the hangar.

The doors hissed open as they approached, and Sam squinted as bright light flooded the dim room. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that the hallway was made of the same silver metal as the hangar, etched with whorls and eddies, and latticed with thick cables. The air in the corridor was noticeably colder and thinner than that of the hangar, and the hum of distant machinery was more pronounced.

“This way.” Megatron rumbled, turning left as he walked down the long passage. Sam followed after him, trepidation mounting with every step. Megatron walked slowly, allowing Sam to stay close to him with only minimal effort. Sam was thankful for the consideration, as the thinner atmosphere in the corridor was already making him lightheaded.

They turned a corner, and an unknown mechanoid glanced up at them in surprise. The purple and gray Decepticon was standing in front of a control panel set into the wall, his servos resting on a complicated-looking touchpad. Curiously, Sam turned his attention inwards. The stranger’s spark signature was unlike anything that he had encountered before—it was yellow-gray, like ambergris, and constantly shifting.

As Megatron drew nearer, the purple and gray mechanoid dipped his helm in greeting.

“Master.”

Megaton rumbled in response, “Blitzwing.”

Blitzwing glanced down at Sam, his expression openly intrigued. Megatron did not deign to assuage the mechanoid’s curiosity, however, and walked passed him without another word. As Sam made to follow the warlord, he felt Blitzwing’s mental presence brush against him. It was an inquisitive gesture, almost like a greeting, but Sam pulled away from it.

“Don’t.” He snapped, aware that Megatron had paused to glance back at him. Sam reached once again for the egress filter, and once again, he recoiled away as pain seared across his mind.

Blitzwing stared down at him, his head tilted to one side.

“Not real friendly, are you?”

The question took Sam so completely by surprise that he glanced at Megatron uncertainly. The warlord was regarding him with an inscrutable expression, but Sam could feel a strange sort of curious anticipation across their bond. Baffled, Sam looked back at Blitzwing and answered him truthfully.

“Under the circumstances, not particularly.”

Blitzwing’s mouthplates shifted abruptly, stretching into a manic grin that was almost feral in its intensity. Sam took an instinctive step backwards.

“How un-Prime-like of you.”

The mechanoid’s mental presence surged forward, crowding into Sam’s mind with focused intent. Immediately, Megatron slammed the larger mechanoid against the work terminal, sending sparks and bits of metal flying into the air. Blitzwing shouted in surprise, but he did not fight against the arm that was crushing him into the wall.

“Manners, Blitzwing.” Megatron chided mildly, his tone at odds with his rigid posture.

After a long moment, Blitzwing pulled out of Sam’s mind. The Decepticon’s mental presence was unfocused and strange, a miasma of _emotion_ and _impression_ that Sam found impossible to interpret. Sam made to pull the egress filter over his mind again, regardless of the pain that it would cause, when Megatron slapped it away. Sam bristled in response, but a warning pulse from the warlord stilled any protest that he might have made.

“Of course, Master. We apologize.” Blitzwing replied, voice strangled. After a long moment, Megatron released him and stepped back. The soldier slumped against the wall, his optics lowered deferentially, and he made no sound of protest or complaint. Without another word, the Decepticon leader turned on his heel and continued walking. Sam glanced once at Blitzwing, who was nursing a sparking servo and muttering to himself, before turning to follow him.

Sam stared at Megatron’s back as he walked, trying to marshal his whirling thoughts. The warlord had allowed the strange interaction with Blitzwing to occur, although he could have easily prevented it. So why had he allowed Blitzwing to invade Sam’s mind only to immediately punish him? Why prevent Sam from firewalling himself? And what the hell was wrong with Blitzwing, anyway?

“Blitzwing is a triple-changer. They are useful in battle, but unbalanced.” Megatron said, answering Sam’s unspoken question.

Sam frowned, taken aback by the warlord’s uncharacteristically tolerant tone. He walked another half a dozen steps before his curiosity beat out his trepidation.

“What’s a triple-changer?” Sam asked hesitantly.

Megatron glanced down at him, something like surprise flickering across his faceplates before it was replaced with irritation.

“Has Optimus taught you so little about our kind?”

Sam resisted the urge to flinch at the caustic tone, but Megatron continued speaking before he could reply. 

“A triple-changer is a frame type that has two alt-modes. Blitzwing can transform into both a tank and a jet.”

Despite himself, Sam felt a twinge of impressed surprise. He could imagine the benefits of having a solider that could transform into a ground mode or a flight mode, as the situation required it. It was not long before they came upon a large double door, which opened after Megatron pressed a complicated code into the touchpad set into the wall. At once, brilliant sunlight flooded the corridor and Sam winced his eyes shut in response. Megatron strode through the doors, and after a long moment, Sam followed him.

The room within was of middling size, filled with an assortment of control panels and large monitors that were scrolling with Cybertronian text. Sam recognized Skywarp and Soundwave standing at workstations arranged about the room, which he knew instinctively was the bridge. He paid them no mind, however, for his attention was focused wholly on the large paneled view screens that lined the entire back wall. He stepped forward reflexively, one foot after the other, until he stood just meters away from the transparent paneling. Far below them, extending all the way to the horizon, was a magnificent mountain range. Craggy gray rocks rose into the troposphere, blanketed with pristine white snow. The sky was blindingly blue, and from their altitude, Sam could just make out the curvature of the Earth.

He was not sure how long he stood there, staring, but eventually he became aware of Megatron’s presence behind him. Sam swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak about the lump in his throat.

“Where are we?”

“Chile.” Megatron replied.

Hope swelled in his chest, warm and bright. As long as they were on Earth, he still had a chance.

Megatron chuckled quietly, stepping forward to run the tip of his claw-like digit across Sam’s shoulders. Sam shuddered in response, curling away from the unwelcome caress.

“You would do well to disabuse yourself of that notion, little one. There is no hope of rescue.”

Sam set his jaw, staring steadfastly out the view screen in silence. Megatron could say whatever he wanted. Sam knew that so long as he was alive, the Autobots would never stop looking for him.

“Perhaps, but the _Trion_ and the _Ark_ were destroyed in the attack. The Autobots are not coming for you.”

Sam blinked hard as the full weight of Megatron’s words became apparent. Without the _Trion_ or the _Ark_ , and without any airframes in their army, there was no way for Autobots to get to him. It took a long while before Sam was able to reply around the emotion that choked him.

“I don’t believe you.”

Megatron chuckled again, mental fingers brushing over Sam’s mind.

_//We both know that’s not true.//_

The words were a silken purr, confident and amused, and Sam bristled in response. He _shoved_ at Megatron’s mental presence at the same time that he stepped away from the Decepticon’s servo.

“Don’t touch me.” He spat.

Megatron tilted his helm, staring at him considerately.

“Don’t?” He rumbled, stepping forward, “You don’t give the orders on this ship, little one.”

Sam struggled not to flinch, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Megatron chuckled, “We both know that’s not true, either.”

The Decepticon leader’s smug condescension inflamed something within Sam, who turned to glare at him in response.

“You’re right, I am afraid,” Sam snapped, “but my fear is all that you’ll ever get from me. Not my cooperation and not my obedience.”

Sam was distantly aware that Skywarp had stopped working, turning in his chair to look at them in shocked surprise. Megatron’s smile slowly vanished as Sam spoke, his frame tensing in tightly leashed anger.

“We shall see how you feel in a thousand years.” He growled softly, "Time and perspective have a way of softening loyalties."

Sam stared up at him without flinching, “One year or a thousand, it doesn’t matter. I will always be loyal to Optimus Prime.”

White hot rage flooded through their bond in an instant, followed immediately by blinding agony as Megatron sank his mental fingers deep into the recesses of Sam’s mind. The warlord _twisted_ , and Sam’s eyes rolled back into his head as he hit the floor. Distantly, Sam was aware of his own frantic screaming, his hands clutching his temples as he writhed on the ground. Nothing that he did helped to alleviate the pain in his mind, which crashed over him in nauseating waves.

The whole time that he screamed, Sam was aware of Megatron’s silent scrutiny across their bond. Eventually, something broke within Sam and his screaming turned into agonized pleading, words tumbling mindlessly from his mouth.

“I’m sorry! Megatron, _please_ , I’m sorry!”

The pain in his mind receded as Megatron withdrew his mental presence. Sam sobbed, curling into a ball as he struggled to pull air into his spasming lungs. He retched hard, and Megatron’s mental presence soothed across Sam’s mind.

_//If you vomit, you will be cleaning it up.//_

Sam sucked in a breath through his mouth, and then another, as he tried to get his roiling stomach under control. After a long moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the cold, metal floor. Megatron’s mental touch lingered, stroking lightly over Sam’s mind as he shook from head to toe. Unable to move or to speak, Sam submitted to the unwanted caress without protest.

From across their bond, Sam felt a flicker of satisfaction.

It was a long time before Sam’s nausea faded and his heartrate returned to something resembling normal. All that remained was a blinding headache and the taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue during his frantic flailing. When he managed to open his eyes, Sam was greeted with the sight of Megatron crouching down in front of him, his optics focused on his face.

“The next time that you speak such insolence, I will tear your tongue from your mouth. Do you understand?”

Megatron’s voice was mild, but Sam did not doubt his sincerity. He nodded slowly, blinking tears out of his eyes.

“That’s good, little one. Now, I have work to do. Can you stay silent and unobtrusive until I am finished?”

Sam nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut against the despair that flooded through him. Megatron rumbled in response before walking towards the opposite end of the room. Sam heard the sound of voices, but they spoke in clipped Cybertronian and he did not understand a word that they said. When his nausea retreated to a periphery annoyance, he pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall. He was shivering violently in cold and in pain, and he wrapped his arms around his torso as he pulled his knees to his chest.

He closed his eyes, retreating into the stillness of his bond with Bumblebee. When the splitting pain in his skull dulled to a harsh throbbing, Sam began to watch the Decepticons as they worked. Skywarp had left shortly after Sam’s punishment, only to be replaced by Starscream. The Seeker had glanced at him with an inscrutable expression on his faceplates, before taking his position at a terminal a short distance away. The Decepticons were largely quiet, speaking only to issue commands or to answer questions. Soundwave, who worked at a large monitor that displayed a confusing array of Cybertronian glyphs, did not speak at all. His cables were plugged into his control panel as his servos flew over the keyboard in front of him.

By the time that Megatron stepped away from the terminal that had occupied his attention for what seemed like hours, Sam’s bladder was uncomfortable and his stomach ached with hunger. The Decepticon leader stopped in front of him, his mental presence reaching forward to stroke against Sam’s mind. The caress was warm and approving, and Sam understood that he had pleased Megatron with his obedience.

Sam swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat.

“Can you walk?” Megatron asked.

Sam nodded faintly, before pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. The warlord considered him for a long moment, and then he gestured with a large servo towards the doors on the opposite end of the room. Without looking at any of the Decepticons that he passed, Sam made his way across the bridge. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his torso, and he was shivering in earnest now. Megatron keyed open the door and nodded for Sam to step into the hall. Sam did as he was bid, and together they made their way through the depths of the ship.

It was not long before Sam realized that they were not walking back towards the hangar. Fear bloomed in the pit of his stomach, and Sam glanced uncertainly at Megatron. There was nothing openly hostile about Megatron’s countenance or his mental presence, but the fact did little to calm him. Eventually, Megatron stopped in front of a nondescript door in a quiet corridor. He keyed a passcode into the terminal set into the wall, and then gestured for Sam to enter after the door hissed open. 

The room beyond was sparsely furnished and painfully utilitarian—there was no color or decoration anywhere to be seen. A minimalist desk dominated the center of the space, cluttered with an assortment of datapads and unfamiliar-looking technology. There was a large berth located on the back wall across from an interior door, which led into a second room. Megatron stepped into the room and Sam hesitantly followed. Once they passed the threshold, the door slid shut behind them and locked with an electronic-sounding _clunk_.

Sam was opening his mouth to ask where they were, when it abruptly occurred to him that these were Megatron’s personal quarters. Uncertainty and confusion joined the fear that was twisting in the pit of Sam’s stomach. Megatron paid him no mind, striding across the room towards the interior door.

“Come along, little one.” Megatron said, and there was nothing malicious or impatient about his tone. Well aware of the consequences wrought by disobedience, Sam walked hesitantly towards him. Megatron stepped into the other room, and a moment later, bright light flooded through the doorway. Sam moved around the doorframe, glancing inside. The space was small, less than half of the size of the main room, and largely empty. There was a strange contraption affixed to the wall on their right, arranged over a heavy grate set in the floor, and a flat cabinet-like structure was situated against the back wall.

Sam frowned, his confusion and uncertainty deepening further still. The room certainly didn’t look like a prison cell or a torture chamber, but he was at a loss for what else it could be. Sam couldn’t imagine many other reasons for Megatron to bring him here. The Decepticon crossed the small space, fiddling with the contraption on the wall, and suddenly liquid streamed from a large nozzle set into the ceiling. Sam abruptly realized that they were standing in a shower.

“Take off your clothes.”

Sam stiffened at Megatron’s words, panic seizing him in an instant.

“Wh—what?”

The Decepticon turned to regard him, “Your garments, remove them.”

Sam stood frozen to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to refuse, to tell Megatron to go fuck himself, but he didn’t dare. The warlord had torn into his mind twice already, and Sam was sure that he couldn’t bear another punishment with the remnants of the last one still pounding through his skull. Despite this, the idea of stripping naked in front of Megatron was abhorrent to the extreme, and Sam was caught between two conflicting impulses: defiance and submission.

Megatron regarded him silently, uncharacteristically patient in the face of Sam’s internal struggle.

“Please don’t make me.” Sam whispered after a long moment, hating the piteous tone of his voice.

Megatron’s mental presence brushed against him, a soothing caress that gentled the burning pain in his mind. Despite the comfort that the touch offered, Sam flinched away. Megatron ex-vented softly, tilting his helm to regard the frightened boy in front of him.

“You’re filthy. Oblige me and you may return to your cell for the rest of the day.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding in his throat. Megatron nudged him through their bond, his mental presence gaining the slightest edge of impatience.

All at once, Sam disconnected from reality. 

He watched, as though in a dream, as he reached down and pulled the hem of his shirt up and over his head. His pants were next, trembling fingers fumbling with the button and fly, before he pulled the cloth over his hips and down his legs. He toed off his shoes, and then stepped out of the pile of material.

Sam shivered violently, gooseflesh breaking out over his arms and legs, as he stood naked in the shower. The warlord pressed a servo against his back, cold metal against warm flesh, and pushed him gently towards the steaming liquid that poured from the ceiling. Sam gasped loudly as he stepped into the flow—the liquid was pleasantly warm, an enjoyable sensation after the cool air of the room.

“Don’t get any in your eyes or your mouth.” Megatron warned, “The solvent won’t corrode your flesh, but it is not potable.”

Sam did not reply, standing silently under the warm spray as Megatron subspaced a square of fabric and handed it to him. Sam understood without being told what the warlord wanted, and he began to scrub the cloth over his body as Megatron watched with undisguised interest. Sam tried his best to empty his mind—he wasn’t here, this wasn’t happening to him—as he worked the cloth over his torso. Sweat and blood and grime sluiced off of him, swirling the tiled floor before disappearing down the thick grated drain. He closed his eyes to block out the disturbing sight, ducking his head under the warm stream and scrubbing his scalp with his fingernails. When he was finished, he stood silently under the spray with the square of fabric clenched tightly in his fist.

Megatron leaned forward, adjusting a value on the wall, and the spray of solvent abruptly cut off. The chill in the room was far more uncomfortable after the warmth of the shower, and Sam shook from head to toe as he stood dripping in the cool air. The Decepticon leader turned to regard him, but Sam did not meet his optics—he stared instead at the wall as he waited for Megatron to decide what to do with him. After a long moment, the warlord subspaced a large metallic-looking cloth, roughly the side of a bedsheet, and wrapped it around Sam’s shivering body. The shimmery material was strange and rough, more like burlap than cotton, but it absorbed the strong-smelling solvent all the same.

Sam stood perfectly still as Megatron drew the cloth over his chest and shoulders. The warlord’s mental presence was satisfied and content, and he brushed against Sam’s mind as he toweled him off. It was a familiar gesture, filled with warm approval, and it took Sam a moment to realize why it was familiar. It was the same sort of affectionate petting that Sam often gave to Mojo and Frankie.

All at once, a memory slammed into the forefront of his mind. 

_Sam, running for his life across the roof in Mission City, the sound of gunfire and screaming in the distance. The Allspark tucked tightly against his side, warmth radiating from the alien metal as he approached the military helicopter. A loud explosion, a sinister laugh._

_“It is fear or courage that compels you, boy?”_

_Desperate fingers scrabbling against unfeeling stone, struggling to get purchase on the weathered statue. The roof trembling with the force of alien footfalls, and then—_

_“Give me the Allspark, and you may live to be my pet.”_

Unable to prevent it, Sam stumbled forward and emptied the contents of his stomach all over the shower floor. He retched loudly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as the taste of sour bile and over-seasoned meatloaf filled his mouth. Megatron watched him silently, never ceasing the gentle caresses in Sam’s mind.

When Sam finally finished heaving, pale and sweating from the strain, he wiped his hand over his mouth and muttered, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Megatron crouched beside him, reaching out to stroke a single digit down the length of Sam’s spine.

“You are not a pet, little one.” He murmured, his voice serious and reassuring, “That I am your Master and that you are mine in no way devalues you.”

Sam did not reply and Megatron did not press him. The Decepticon leader stayed there, stroking Sam’s back until he stopped shaking, and then he subspaced fresh clothes for him. Sam dressed as quickly as he was able, relieved for the soft, thick fabric even though it was two sizes too large. When he was finished dressing, Megatron led him from the room without making him clean up his mess, despite his earlier threat.

Absurdly, Sam was grateful.

They walked together through the ship, neither of them speaking a word, until Sam was back within the confines of his cell. Megatron produced a bottle of water and an MRE from his subspace, handing them to Sam, who accepted the items without comment. After a long moment, Megatron subspaced another item—a large piece of fabric that was not unlike the one he had used to towel Sam off after the shower. The Decepticon leader draped the fabric around Sam’s shoulders, his fingers lingering for a moment before he turned away.

“Rest and refuel. I will see you in the morning.”

Sam stood there, one hand gripping the edges of the blanket, as Megatron strode purposefully from the hangar. Once the door slid closed behind him, Sam sank slowly to the floor of the cell. As he methodically opened the pre-packed meal, he did his best to think of nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much to everyone who left positive and/or constructive feedback on the last chapter. It was far darker than anything I have written before, and your support meant more to me than I can say!

Dave woke slowly, his consciousness returning in fits and starts, until at last he opened his eyes. When his blurry vision finally cleared, he saw that he was in an unfamiliar space with beige-painted walls and nondescript furniture. He slowly turned his head to the side, and a splash of color caught his attention. There, on a squat, bedside table, was a flower bouquet arranged in a ceramic vase. Dave squinted, and he could just make out a small, white card affixed to a peg stuck between the sunflowers and lilies. He stared at the flowers for a long time, waiting for the moment of clarity that would provide insight as to where he was and what had happened, but nothing came.

Eventually, and with great effort, he turned his head to regard himself. He was lying on a hospital gurney with the blankets pooled loosely around his hips. His bare chest was heavily bandaged and dotted with electrode pads that were connected by thin, black wires to a nearby heart monitor. He lifted his arm and noted the pulse oximeter attached to his index finger and the IV taped to the back of his hand.

Distantly, Dave could hear the steady, electronic beeping of the monitors increasing in pitch and tempo.

“You back with us, Carter?”

Dave startled as Ratchet’s holoform leaned into his field of vision. The medic looked unusually grim and harried, but there was a glimmer of relief in his steel blue eyes. Dave opened his mouth to voice his confusion, when he realized there was a nasal cannula taped to his face. He frowned, reaching up to pull at the thin tubing, before Ratchet intercepted him and lowered his hand to the mattress. 

“Leave it. Your oxygen saturation still isn’t where I want it to be.”

Dave swallowed dryly, wincing as his throat clicked. When he finally spoke, his voice was like desert gravel.

“Ratchet, what… what happened?”

The holoform’s lips pressed into a thin line. Rather than answer him, the medic reached up to adjust the bag of saline that was hanging on a rack beside Dave’s bed. Dave opened his mouth to repeat his question when Ratchet turned to regard him with a closed-off expression.

“There was a Decepticon attack. What do you remember?”

Dave frowned again, eyes narrowing in thought. He recalled the activation necessitated by the unknown mechanoid, and he remembered Optimus deploying three teams to the nuclear power plant. After that, he and Sam—

Dave’s eyes widened in dread and alarm as memories of the attack surged to the forefront of his mind. Before he could struggle into a sitting position, however, Ratchet’s hands were on his shoulders and pinning him to the mattress.

“Don’t you dare. It took three hours to get you stitched up, and I won’t have you undoing all of that work.”

Dave grabbed Ratchet’s wrist, and the air rattled in his chest as he struggled to catch his breath long enough to demand, “Where’s Sam?”

A strident alarm sounded from one of the many monitors at his bedside, and Ratchet’s expression became openly irritated.

“Calm down or I will be forced to sedate you.”

His voice was clipped and demanding, and Dave understood at once that he was speaking to Ratchet the medic, not Ratchet his friend. Dave narrowed his eyes at the holoform, leaning towards him as well as he was able.

“God dammit, Ratchet. Is he alive?”

Before Ratchet could reply, Optimus’ grave voice cut across the room.

“We believe so, Dave.”

Dave turned towards the holoform with growing trepidation. Optimus looked worse for wear than Ratchet, his holoform sporting numerous abrasions and an unusually somber expression.

“You _believe_ so?” Dave repeated, allowing himself to be pushed back against the mattress. Ratchet folded his arms over his chest, a supremely unimpressed look on his face as he stared down at him.

Optimus nodded, approaching the foot of the bed.

“He was taken by Megatron shortly after you were attacked by the minicon. Immediately thereafter, all Decepticon forces withdrew from the island. We have not seen or heard from Sam or the Decepticons since.”

Dave stared at Optimus in disbelief, a horrible sinking feeling in his gut. Although Sam was fifteen years his junior, he had come to consider the younger man both a colleague and a friend. He was well aware of the Decepticon’s proclivity for cruelty and torture, and he shuddered to think what Sam was enduring in their custody. He scrubbed a hand over his face, noting the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

“How long since he was taken?” Dave asked at last.

“Just over two days ago.”

“Jesus, Optimus. Do we know what they want?”

Optimus shook his head minutely, “Not definitively, no.”

Dave gritted his teeth in irritation, well aware that the Autobot leader was being purposefully vague.

“Care to speculate?”

“Dave, you are in no condition to get involved in this right now.” Ratchet interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. Dave glanced up at the holoform stubbornly, refusing to be put off.

“Answer the question.”

Optimus sighed as he reached out to grip the railing of the gurney. The gesture was uncharacteristically weary, and Dave felt trepidation tighten in his stomach.

“We believe that Megatron took Sam to exploit the Allspark energy in his body.”

Dave frowned, “Can he do that?”

Ratchet snorted derisively, “He will surely try, regardless of the consequences.”

Optimus glanced towards his Chief Medical Officer, “Not necessarily, Ratchet. As a Prime, Sam may have value to Megatron’s cause beyond the Allspark energy.”

Ratchet narrowed his eyes.

“Are you willing to bet Sam’s life on that?”

Dave glanced between Optimus and Ratchet, suddenly aware of the simmering tension in the room. Optimus sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“Of course not.”

Dave pushed himself up onto his elbows, struggling to keep the wince of pain off his face. Ratchet’s head snapped around, and the medic glared down at him.

“What’s the situation topside, Optimus?” Dave asked, steering the conversation away from the sensitive subject of Sam’s captivity.

Optimus did not need to ask for clarification.

“The Downtown area was heavily impacted. Six administrative buildings were destroyed, and another dozen were damaged beyond repair. The embassy, the dining facilities, and procurement sustained moderate damage. The _Trion_ has sustained significant damage—it is likely she will never be flight-capable again.” He paused, and Dave could sense the Autobot leader’s guilt and regret, “There have been twenty-six deaths and eighty-nine serious injuries so far. Search and rescue is still ongoing.”

Dave felt himself pale and he sank back against the pillows without a sound. After a moment, he glanced back towards Optimus.

“Did Will and Killian make it?”

Optimus nodded minutely, “They both made it through the attack unscathed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dave noted the way that Ratchet went very still.

“Yes, Lennox is fine.” Ratchet agreed, and there was something harsh about his tone.

Optimus turned to look at the medic, his expression openly reproachful, “He made a judgment call to the best of his ability in a difficult situation.”

“It was the wrong call.”

Dave glanced up at Ratchet, taken aback by the hostility in his tone. He wanted to ask for clarification, to learn what had happened after he had been attacked, but he knew that it was the wrong moment to broach the subject. Instead, he tried to distract the medic by gesturing vaguely to himself.

“What’s the damage, doc?”

Ratchet looked at him, his dark expression softening into something closer to exasperation.

“You have four lacerations in your chest, varying between two and three inches deep. You lost a liter of blood and suffered stage two hypovolemic shock until Lewis got you stabilized. You also have a punctured lung and a lacerated liver.”

Dave frowned, “Will I need a transplant?”

Ratchet shook his head, “No, thank Primus. Lewis was able to get you sorted in time.”

Dave nodded before something else occurred to him. Glancing at Optimus, he asked, “What’s been the international response to the attacks?”

Although Optimus’ face was carefully controlled, his eyes hardened to pieces of flint.

“The Indian government has publically acknowledged our involvement in preventing a nuclear incident, and other world leaders have contacted me to express their sincere condolences for our loss.”

Dave glanced at Optimus in surprise, “They know about Sam?”

“No, not as of yet. We have kept the details of the attack to a bare minimum. The only humans who are aware of Sam’s capture are yourself, Killian Anderson, and Will Lennox.”

“That’s not sustainable, Optimus. There are over 5000 people on this base, and one of them is bound to notice that he’s missing once the dust settles.”

Optimus inclined his head in acknowledgement, his expression grim. “Yes, I know.”

“So what’s the plan? Once this gets out, it will be international news.” Another thought occurred to him, and Dave grimaced, “When are you going to tell his parents?”

Optimus sighed softly, “I will deliver the news in person once the base is secured.”

Dave made to push up onto his elbows, but Ratchet’s hand was there in an instant, pressing him down onto the mattress again.

“What part of ‘you have multiple serious injuries to your core’ was difficult to comprehend?” The medic asked scathingly. Dave waved him off, looking back towards Optimus.

“Let me go with you. I’ve come to know them pretty well over the last six months.”

Optimus’ expression warmed with sincere appreciation, “Thank-you for your offer, Dave, but you are in no condition to travel, nor will you be so for the foreseeable future. I am afraid this is something that I must do alone.”

Dave opened his mouth to protest when Ratchet made an impatient sound and grasped his wrist. He glanced down in surprise to see the medic withdraw a syringe from the IV taped to the back of his hand.

“Seriously?” Dave asked, openly exasperated. He could already feel the warm pull of the sedative spreading through his body with every beat of his heart.

“Your oxygen saturation has dropped six percent since you’ve woken up.” Ratchet replied, all business as he moved to replace the nasal cannula with an oxygen mask, “If it gets much lower, you’re going to pass out anyway.”

Dave groaned softly, his breath puffing against the soft silicone on his face, “Try not to kill each other while I’m under.” 

Optimus’ mouth quirked in amusement, “We shall do our best.”

The last thing that Dave was aware of before darkness claimed him was Ratchet’s hand squeezing his shoulder.

* * *

Sam’s first conscious thought upon waking was that he was finally _warm_.

He blinked his eyes open, squinting in the dim light of the hangar, to see that he was lying on the floor. The thin blanket-like material that Megatron had given him before he had left Sam to his own devices was wrapped tightly around his body. However, the blanket was not the source of Sam’s comfort. Sometime in the night, Ravage had entered his cell and curled herself around his body. Sam’s head was tucked into her abdomen, and her head was resting on his upper thigh.

He could hear the quiet rumble of her purr over the distant hum of the _Nemesis’_ engines.

Instinctively, Sam reached for his egress filter and shuddered in relief as the veil fell over his mind. It was only somewhat uncomfortable, a quiet ache between his temples, but it was a pain that Sam suffered gladly. He laid there for a long time, silent and unmoving, as he thought about what had occurred earlier in the shower. The memory made his cheeks burn in humiliation, but food and rest had revitalized him, and Sam was relived to feel the familiar flicker of defiance in his chest. He would not let Megatron break him.

The thought of the warlord made Sam turn his mind inwards. Although Megatron’s thoughts were inaccessible, Sam was aware of the Decepticon leader’s distraction. It took a long while for him to puzzle out the sensation, but eventually Sam realized that Megatron was working—and judging by the tinge of tediousness to his mental presence, it wasn’t anything interesting. The thought of the millions-of-years-old alien warlord being bored by busywork was incongruous in the extreme, and Sam huffed quietly in disbelief.

Sam felt Ravage tilt her head, and he glanced down to see that the cyber cat had slanted her optic open to regard him. She did not move from where she rested against his thigh.

“So, personal space isn’t really a thing for you, I take it?” He asked at last, his voice rough with sleep.

She huffed softly, but it was an amused sound.

“You were cold.”

Sam couldn’t argue with that—the air in the hangar was frigid.

“Tell Megatron to stop being so cheap and spring for a heater. Problem solved.”

Ravage chuckled lowly, a rumbling sound that Sam could feel in his bones.

“If you wish to pass on that message, you will have to do so yourself.”

Despite himself, the corners of Sam’s lips quirked in a half-smile.

“Scaredy-cat.”

Ravage rumbled in good-natured agreement, rubbing her faceplates against Sam’s thigh. It was a strangely affectionate gesture, and Sam shoved against her in response.

“Quit it.” He replied, though his tone was not as sharp as he had intended. Ravage obliged him, resting her head back against his leg, and ex-venting softly as her optic slowly shuttered. Abruptly, it occurred to Sam that the symbiont was tired. He stared down at her for a long time, neither speaking nor moving, before he pulled the blanket tightly around himself again and let his eyes flutter closed. He was not sure for how long he laid there, half-asleep and comfortable, listening to the oddly soothing sound of Ravage’s purring. He must have dozed off, because a scornful voice suddenly pierced through the peace and quiet of the hangar.

“Why are you letting him leak fluids all over you?”

Sam jerked awake, his heart in his throat as his eyes snapped open. There, inches away from him, glowed two jewel-sized red optics, set in a sleek avian face. Sam scrambled into a sitting position, staring in surprise at the mechanimal in front of him. It was, to the best of Sam’s understanding, a metal phoenix. The creature was large and sleek, covered in golden metal feathers that glinted in the dim light of the room. It had a long, elegant neck, and its faceplates were detailed and delicate.

“What?” He managed after a moment, but the mechanimal did not reply. She had tilted her head considerately, before ruffling her feathers and _chirring_ softly at him.

“Laserbreak does not need her ego inflated any further than it already is.” Ravage put in dryly, and Sam grimaced as he realized that his egress filter had fallen apart sometime in the night. With an effort, he gathered it up and pulled it over his mind once again.

“So you’re Laserbreak.” He said gruffly, “I suppose I have you to thank for tracking me down in the jungle.”

Laserbeak stretched her wings, flapping them several times before tucking them back against her slender frame. Sam was surprised to see that her wingspan must have been close to two meters from from tip to tip.

“I am.” She agreed, and Sam could hear the note of vain pride in her voice, “You should have known better than to flee from me.”

Sam scoffed softly, “I didn’t even know that you existed, but I would have run all the same.”

His words seemed to startle the mechanimal, for her feathers ruffled and her optics flashed in indignation.

“What do you mean you didn’t know that I existed?” She demanded, and Sam inferred from the tone of her voice that he had deeply insulted her. He turned his head to stare disbelievingly at Ravage, but the cyber cat merely shrugged at him in a sort of tolerant resignation.

Sam glanced back at the lithe bird of prey, “Sorry. You’ve never come up.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently. The bird hissed at him, before nipping him painfully with her strong, curved beak. Sam cried out in surprise, grabbing his upper arm as he twisted way. Before he could kick out at her, however, Ravage growled low in her throat and shifted towards the smaller mechanimal.

Laserbeak tossed her head, hopping away from the cyber cat with an angry stream of Cybertronian. Ravage pinned her with a narrowed stare, her tail flicking in obvious irritation.

“Laserbeak is another of our Master’s symbionts.” She said after a moment, and the bird scoffed in response. It was evident that she objected to being referred to as ‘just another’ anything.

Sam rubbed his arm, noting that she had neither broken his skin nor tore his shirt with her sharp bite.

“Nice to meet you.” He muttered sarcastically, and Laserbeak ruffled her feathers in response.

“How do you know so little about your sworn enemies?” Laserbeak asked with obvious disdain, “Has Autobot Jazz’s demise affected your intelligence so severely?”

“Shut-up.” Sam snapped, bristling at her derisive tone.

Ravage turned her head slightly to regard him, “Laserbeak is our Master’s spy and scout. Gathering intelligence is a part of her primary programming.”

“Really? Soundwave thought the flashy golden phoenix was the right symbiont for Spec Ops?”

Although his tone was scathing, Laserbeak preened at his words.

“Our Master does not choose our appearance or our base functioning.” Ravage replied patiently, “He chooses our missions based on our skills and experience.”

Sam frowned, his curiosity piquing at her words despite his better judgment.

“If he didn’t choose your appearance or base functioning, then he wasn’t your Creator?”

His words seemed to amuse the symbionts, for Ravage’s features softened and Laserbeak _chirred_ loudly in response.

“What do you know about chronicler-class mecha?” Ravage asked, instead of answering his question. Sam frowned again, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. He had read a little about the chronicler-class in the datapads that Optimus had provided him. They were part of the upper-caste of Cybertronian society, dedicated to gathering and preserving knowledge in all of its forms. Alpha Trion had been a Chronicler, and Orion Pax had assisted him in his work.

“A little.” He said, reluctant to reveal the full extent of his ignorance. Ravage regarded him for a long moment before speaking.

“The chronicler-class are those mechanoids who were sparked to protect Cybertron’s ancient knowledge. Rather than large frame-types, however, chronicler-class are almost exclusively sparked as minicons.”

Sam tilted his head, staring at her in open surprise. Alpha Trion certainly had not been a minicon—all of the data files that Sam had read referred to his towering stature and commanding presence. As though sensing his confusion, Ravage continued.

“Chronicler-class minicons are designed to be cared for by carrier-class mechanoids. There exists a symbiotic relationship between the two: carrier-class mechanoids protect the minicons and facilitate their search for knowledge, while the minicons share this knowledge with their carriers and submit to their will.”

Sam’s frowned again, “That sounds an awful lot like slavery to me.”

Ravage huffed loudly in amusement, and warm air washed over Sam’s body.

“Not at all. Chronicler-class mecha choose their carrier and they may rescind their loyalty at any time. As you can imagine, there is a hierarchy among both chronicler-class and carrier-class mechanoids, as competition for bonding can be fierce.”

“Bonding? Like a spark bond?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Laserbeak interrupted, fluttering her wings before settling into a nesting position, “It’s a unique bond that exists between a chronicler and their carrier.”

Sam’s frown deepened, “So you _chose_ to serve Soundwave?”

“We did,” Ravage agreed, “and we continue to do so proudly. There does not exist another carrier-class mechanoid with Soundwave’s intelligence and skill.”

“I’m sure he’s just the dreamiest homicidal maniac around.” Sam replied dryly.

Ravage did not respond to his insult, instead returning to Sam’s earlier question, “All of this is to say that our Master does not control our appearance or our primary functioning. Rather, he uses us to achieve his objectives as he sees fit.”

“Even if that means sending you to your death?” Sam challenged, remembering the battle in Egypt when Bumblebee had torn Ravage’s spinal strut from her body.

Ravage’s expression became intense, “There is very little that would prevent a carrier-class mechanoid from protecting their symbionts. Soundwave has razed entire cities to the ground to protect a single cassette.”

Sam frowned, taken aback by the sincerity in her tone. He wondered idly what Soundwave would have done if Ravage had been offlined in Egypt, and abruptly he realized that he did not want to know. Suddenly feeling cold, he reached down, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over his shoulders. After a long moment, he glanced up at the cyber cat.

“What time is it?”

“It is eight o’clock in the morning on Diego Garcia.”

Sam nodded faintly, leaning back against the wall of his cell. As the silence stretched on, Ravage pushed up onto her legs and crossed the short space between them.

“You should eat.”

As she spoke, a familiar brown package and bottle of water landed on the metal floor beside him. Sam reached out a hand, preventing the bottle from rolling away as he huffed quietly.

“He just refueled.” Laserbreak complained, craning her long neck to preen the metal features on her wing, “Don’t coddle him.”

“Humans require sustained nutrition throughout a twenty-four hour cycle for optimal performance.” Ravage replied patiently, “They do not refuel according to our standards.”

Laserbeak ruffled her feathers, the metal scales tinkling in the quiet of the hangar, “Is our Master sure that this is worth it? He is so high maintenance.”

Sam stared at her incredulously for the space of a heartbeat before he started to laugh. The sound was strange and foreign to his ears, but he found that once he had started, he couldn’t stop. Laserbeak’s perplexed expression only spurred him on, and it was a long while before Sam’s laughter subsided into quiet chuckles.

“How is this my life?” He asked no one in particular, reaching forward to grab the bottle of water. He cracked open the cap and took a long drink, before resting his forearms on his bent knees. Ravage rumbled amusedly, but she did not reply. After a long moment, Sam sighed resignedly and grabbed the pre-packaged meal. A quick glance at the label revealed that roast turkey dinner was on the menu. He tore off the top of the package, and started eating the cold food with his fingers.

“That is disgusting.” Laserbeak said after a long moment, and Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“It’s pretty gross.” He agreed, “But I doubt that Megs will be ordering take-out any time soon.”

When his statement was met with complete silence, Sam glanced up and noted the identical looks of disapproval on the symbionts’ faces. The corner of his lips quirked up in amusement.

“If that makes you clutch your pearls, then you’d be horrified to hear what the NEST soldiers call him.” He said conversationally, surprised by his lackadaisical attitude. This was the same Megatron who had tortured him to tears not even twelve hours ago, and then forced him to strip naked for the worst shower of his life. Sam supposed that he had hit his physiological limit for fear because he was feeling very unafraid.

When he finished the cold meal, he licked the congealed grease off his fingers as he tried to ignore the faint tang of cleanser. Sam dropped the package onto the floor beside him, wiping his hands off on his shirt and reaching for the bottle of water. Before he could take a drink, he became aware of Megatron’s scrutiny across their bond. He paused, the bottle raised halfway to his mouth as his heart started to beat faster in his chest. Had he been listening this whole time?

Sam worked his jaw for a moment, before he raised the bottle to his lips and took an unhurried drink. He tried to project nonchalance to this best of his ability, well aware that Megatron would be able to see straight through him if the warlord wished to look. To Sam’s astonishment, he felt a flicker of amusement across their bond, and then there was the sensation of movement.

Tension gripped him all at once, and he turned his head to stare at the hangar doors. Within a few scant minutes, the doors slid open and Megatron strode purposefully towards his cell. The warlord’s posture was commanding, but Sam could not sense any anger or vengefulness from him. As he approached, Ravage pushed up onto her feet once again and Laserbeak broke into flight. Sam glanced up as she circled the large hangar, taken aback by her undeniable beauty.

Megatron stopped in front of him a moment later, and Sam forced himself to look the warlord in the optics.

“Megatron.” He greeted quietly from his seated position. The warlord regarded him for a long moment, before be beckoned for Sam to rise.

“Come, little one. Walk with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information about chronicler-class and carrier-class mechanoids was obtained from a number of fan fictions, including "Giants of the Earth" by Hopeofthedawn and Thefractured, as well as "Division" by BalloonArcade. The dynamic between Ravage and Laserbeak was also heavily inspired by Division as well. When I read that story, I couldn't get the idea of female!Laserbeak out of my mind, and it's been my headcanon ever since.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam stared warily at the warlord from his position on the floor, feeling a familiar sense of trepidation tighten in his gut. After a long moment, Sam capped the bottle of water and rested it against the wall as he pushed himself to his feet. He glanced at Megatron expectantly, and the Decepticon gestured towards the large doors on the opposite end of the hangar. Without a word, Sam made his way across the room. He walked at a comfortable pace, his hands pressed into the pockets of his pants, as he drew the egress filter tightly over his mind. Although the filter could not protect him from Megatron’s mental scrutiny, the pressure was a welcome distraction all the same. 

Megatron walked at his side, matching Sam’s slower gait without comment. Although Sam stared straight ahead, he was aware of Ravage’s presence trailing silently behind them. Laserbeak, by contrast, swooped through the air ahead of them, her golden wings glinting in the bright light of the corridor as she winged through the large doors. As he had yesterday, Sam winced in discomfort as he stepped out of the hangar, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the well-lit passageway.

They continued down the hall in the direction of the bridge. Sam paid close attention to the route, making a mental note of each doorway, computer terminal, hangar, and corridor that they passed. It was not long before Sam realized that the _Nemesis_ was an entirely different battleship than the _Ark_. Whereas the _Ark_ was beauty and grace, designed for aesthetic pleasure as much as function, the _Nemesis_ was entirely pragmatic in its design. There was nothing superfluous about its layout, nothing unnecessary about its schematics. Even the whorls that were etched into the metal of the corridor were simple geometric shapes, nothing like the complicated and appealing designs of the _Ark_. 

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of satisfaction from across the Creator bond-space. He glanced sidelong at Megatron in surprise, realizing abruptly that the warlord had been following his train of thought.

“Optimus is far too concerned by matters of aesthetics and appearance.” Megatron rumbled, and there was something condescending about his tone. Sam frowned at him, mildly offended on Optimus’ behalf. After a moment, he turned his head to stare back down the corridor. He thought about his response, turning the words over in his mind, before he finally replied.

“Maybe he wants to make sure that his soldiers remember what it is that they’re fighting for—that there’s more to this life than your war.”

Megatron stopped abruptly, turning towards him as he clenched one servo into a tight fist. Sam could feel the swell of anger across their bond, and he braced himself in response.

“My war?” He growled, venom in every syllable, “This is Prime’s wretched war.”

Megatron’s words took Sam completely by surprise, and he could not hide his confusion. The warlord scoffed loudly, derision written all over his faceplates. After a long moment, Megatron turned and continued walking—this time, at a noticeably faster pace. Sam stood frozen for a heartbeat before he turned to glance behind him. Ravage was standing several hundred feet away, as silent as a shadow. Sam felt a twist of consternation, and then Megatron’s presence was in his mind, agitated and impatient. He reluctantly turned back towards the warlord, jogging across the distance between them even though the exertion in the thin air made him feel lightheaded.

They walked in silence for the length of the corridor before Megatron asked, apropos of nothing, “What has Optimus told you of how we met?"

Once again, Megatron’s words took him completely by surprise. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, hesitating as he chose his words with care.

“Not much.” Sam admitted, “I know that the two of you met before the Great War.”

Megatron turned to look at him, and there was something assessing about his expression.

“Indeed. I first met Orion Pax shortly after I won my freedom from the gladiatorial pits of Tarn.”

Sam’s head jerked up, his surprise morphing into shock in an instant. He had no idea that Optimus had met Megatron before he had been re-made into Optimus Prime. Immediately, Sam felt a swell of satisfaction through their bond, and he knew that Megatron had been pleased by his reaction.

“Orion Pax was an idealist and a socialist, a lower-caste data clerk working under the tutelage of the great Alpha Trion.” Megatron continued, and the sarcastic bite to his words made it clear exactly what he thought about the Chronicler, “We met when he came to listen to me speak at a rally for egalitarianism.”

Sam frowned, feeling confused and suspicious in equal measures. Megatron turned to look at him, a brow ridge quirking in sardonic amusement, “Not what you were expecting, I take it?”

Sam’s frown deepened, and he suddenly felt terribly wrong-footed. He could sense Megatron’s sincerity through their bond, but he was sure that the Decepticon was being less than forthcoming with him.

“You could say that.” He replied, neutrally, after a moment.

Megatron actually chuckled, although there was little mirth in the sound. They turned the corner and approached the bridge entrance, before Megatron stopped and stared down at him.

“I believe that you will find a great deal about Optimus’ early life surprising.”

Sam stiffened, his earlier offence at Megatron’s cavalier attitude returning in spades.

“I wouldn’t believe a word you have to say on the subject.” He snapped.

Abruptly, Megatron lowered into a loose crouch in front of him, so that they were almost eye-level with one another. Sam took an instinctive step backwards, but the Decepticon leader made no move to approach any further.

“I will never lie to you, Sam.” He intoned seriously, “Whatever you want to know about our history, about the war, about my relationship with Optimus, I will tell you. I can’t promise that you will like what you learn, however.”

Sam looked away from Megatron’s intense gaze, once again aware of the thrum of _sincerity_ from across their bond. He was sure that he was being manipulated, but he couldn’t tell what Megatron was trying to accomplish. Surely he knew that Sam did not trust him?

Rather than waiting for Sam to reply, Megatron straightened to his full height and pressed a code into the keypad by the bridge entrance. There was an electronic chirp and an audible _clunk_ as the locking mechanism disengaged, and then the doors slid open. Sam glanced into the room, surprised to see that it was dark inside, before he hesitantly followed Megatron onto the bridge. The doors slid shut behind them, enveloping the room in near total darkness. Sam froze, unable to see his hand in front of his face, before Megatron’s servo came to rest against his back. Sam flinched at the unexpected touch, but Megatron merely ushered him forward until Sam stood next to a large control panel. Megatron pulled out a chair and sat down as he powered-up the station. Lights flickered to life one by one across the terminal, and their weak luminescence helped Sam’s eyes adjust to the darkness.

Looking around the room, he noticed that Soundwave had not moved from his spot at the communications terminal. Now, however, Laserbeak was perched on the back of Soundwave’s chair, her wings folded elegantly against her frame. Glancing down, Sam noticed Ravage was curled around Soundwave’s pedes, her head resting on her paws as she regarded him with a half-shuttered optic. Sam could also make out Thundercracker and Skywarp in the corner, muttering quietly to each other as they stared at a complicated-looking read-out, and an unknown mechanoid working at a terminal a short distance away.

Sam frowned, unsure what Megatron expected of him. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, but Megatron paid him no attention, focusing instead on his workstation. He stood there awkwardly for a minute or two, before he finally sat down, folding his legs underneath him as he leaned back against the terminal. He stayed there for a long while, the chill of the metal floor soaking into him as he stared at the comings and goings of the Decepticon bridge. Just as they had the day before, the mechanoids worked in near total silence. There was no friendly banter or lighthearted teasing, as was common amongst the Autobots while they worked. The Decepticons were single-minded and focused, moving about the room in the sort of perfect coordination that was born from centuries of practice.

Eventually, Sam began to lose the feeling in his legs. He glanced once again at Megatron and saw that the Decepticon leader remained focused on whatever he was doing. Deciding that Megatron had not given him an explicit command to remain at his side, Sam pushed to his feet and wandered towards the view screens on the other side of the bridge. He stopped a short distance away from the clear paneling, staring at the landscape beneath them in undisguised amazement. They remained stationed above the vast mountain chain that Sam had seen the day before, but it was like another world entirely at night. Stars glittered in the inky firmament of the upper atmosphere and the craggy mountains were visible in the pale light of a gibbous moon, which cast long shadows down their steep flanks.

It was ethereally beautiful, like something out of an impressionist’s painting, and Sam felt a painful twist in his chest as he wished that Bumblebee could see it. He blinked hard, struggling to keep himself under control. Their bond ached constantly now, a low-level burn that was omnipresent in his mind, reminding him of Bumblebee’s absence.

Sam was interrupted from his morose thoughts as Ravage butted her head against his thigh. He startled slightly, glancing down in surprise. He had not heard her approach.

“It is very beautiful.” She said, as though reading his mind, and Sam instinctively drew his egress filter more tightly around his mental presence.

He shrugged lightly, glancing back to the view screen, “It is.”

“I prefer warmer climates myself. The blue spires of Crystal City were striking to behold before they were destroyed.”

Sam hummed softly, responding without thinking.

“I was born and raised in California before I moved to Diego Garcia. Warmth is all I’ve ever known.” He paused, feeling strangely wistful, “I think this is the closest that I’ve ever been to snow.”

Ravage sat on her haunches, leaning her long body against him.

“I was sparked in Nova Cronum at the end of the first Golden Age. It was a beautiful city, but it was often cold.”

Sam glanced down at her again, taken aback by her reflective tone. He reached out a hand, stroking the back of her broad head. The fine, silver panels of her plating were warm and smooth against the pads of his fingers. He stayed like that for a long while, before he spoke.

“It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how much I hate you.”

Ravage chuckled quietly, a low rumble deep within her chassis.

“You don’t hate me, little Prime. You hate what you think I represent.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow, his fingers continuing to brush over her head, “And what’s that?”

“Evidence of the Decepticon’s humanity. Kindness in an unkind situation. Uncertainty.” She angled her head to look at him, “Take your pick.”

Sam frowned faintly, his fingers stilling against her head. She wasn’t wrong, exactly. Sam had expected to be tortured to within an inch of his life when he woke up in Megatron’s cockpit. He had not expected Ravage, or Knock Out, or Thundercracker, and their strange brand of Decepticon kindness. Even Megatron’s cruelty had a pragmatic edge to it, a predictable sort of cause-and-effect that Sam could almost understand. 

He slowly pulled his hand away, folding his arms over his chest.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He replied after a long moment.

Ravage did not reply, instead turning to stare out the view screen at the mountain chain far below them. They stood in silence, side-by-side, as the sky lightened from inky black, to indigo, to the cool, clear blue of early morning. By the time that the crepuscular rays of sunlight peaked over the mountains in the distance, Sam was thoroughly cold and hungry.

Without looking away from the view screen, he asked quietly, “What time is it?”

“It is three o’clock in the afternoon.”

Sam nodded faintly, running his hands over his arms in an effort to warm himself. He looked over his shoulder at Megatron, who had not moved from his position at the large starboard terminal. Whatever it was that the Decepticon leader was doing seemed to be occupying his full attention. Sam huffed quietly. The mind-numbing boredom and soul crushing terror that had plagued him since he had boarded the _Nemesis_ was turning out to be a brutal combination.

He had just turned back to the view screen when he heard the doors hiss open. He glanced towards the sound, curious to know who had entered, before stiffening from head to toe as adrenaline surged through him in an instant. Barricade strode onto the bridge, as large and menacing as he had been the last time that Sam had seen him. The shock trooper paid him no mind as he walked directly towards Megatron, stopping in front of the Decepticon leader. Megatron finished typing before half-turning in his seat to regard Barricade. The two Decepticons spoke in rapid-fire Cybertronian, and when Barricade inclined his helm gravely, Megatron waved him away with a thoughtful rumble.

As Barricade turned towards the bridge entrance, his optics settled on Sam for a fraction of a second. A slow, knowing smirk curled the corner of his mouthplates and Sam narrowed his eyes in response. His minute posturing caused Barricade to chuckle, a dark and foreboding sound, as the shock trooper made his way back towards the entrance to the bridge. The condescension and derision evident in the mechanoid’s posture caused Sam to bristle in response.

Disregarding the potential consequences of his actions, Sam lifted his chin a fraction of an inch, before saying with quiet conviction, “Bumblebee says hello.”

Barricade stopped dead in his tracks as his helm snapped towards him. Although Sam had not raised his voice, it was obvious that the shock trooper had heard him. The mechanoid took a step forward, spitting something in angry-sounding Cybertronian.

“I’m sorry.” Sam replied contritely, “I don’t speak asshole.”

Barricade’s optics widened in outrage, and then he flexed both of his arms as a small, black object disconnected from his chest cavity. The object fell, transforming in mid-air, and then the familiar shape of Frenzy hit the floor of the bridge. The little symbiont chittered wildly as he darted towards Sam, all flashing metal and sharp limbs. Sam had only a moment to brace himself before the microcon launched itself at him. Frenzy landed hard against his chest, its spindly legs scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt as Sam stumbled backwards. The microcon hissed a barrage of indecipherable abuse in his face, before slashing one appendage across his cheek. Sam grunted in pain as heat bloomed below his right eye, grabbing the little symbiont and tearing it away from him. He threw the microcon against the nearest terminal, and it bounced across the complicated-looking control panel before righting itself. The symbiont chittered angrily as it darted back towards him.

“Barricade, enough.” Megatron rumbled without looking away from his station. The shock trooper made no move to recall his symbiont, his eyes narrowed maliciously as Frenzy leapt towards Sam once again. There was a blur of movement out of the corner of Sam’s eye, and Ravage knocked the minicon out of the air with a single swipe of her paw. The cyber cat growled softly, her head lowered in an obvious threat display. As Frenzy slid across the floor of the bridge, Barricade roared in outrage and strode towards her.

Soundwave was out of his seat in an instant. Although the communications specialist neither spoke a word nor displayed any visible signs of aggression, Barricade stopped in his tracks. He spat something in Cybertronian at the third in command, but Soundwave did not reply. His singular red optic was fixed unwaveringly on the shock trooper, waiting for him to take action one way or the other. After a long, tense moment, Barricade rumbled something towards Frenzy, who darted back across the bridge without a sound. The spider-like symbiont skittered up Barricade’s leg before folding itself back into the Decepticon’s chest cavity. Barricade turned and strode from the bridge without another word.

Sam heaved a breath that he hadn’t realized that he had been holding, leaning back against the view screen as he fought to get his thundering heart under control. As the tide of adrenaline ebbed away, the heat in his cheek sharpened into throbbing pain. He raised the hem of his shirt to scrub across his face, and it came away slick with blood.

Megatron turned in his seat, regarding Sam with unimpressed optics before pushing to his feet. Sam felt a twist of apprehension in his gut as the Decepticon leader approached him.

“That was unwise.”

Sam huffed softly, pressing the sleeve of his shirt against his face, but he did not reply. What could he say? Megatron was right, of course. Squaring off against Barricade had been tantamount to suicide, but that didn’t change the fact that watching his optics widen in shock had been one of the most gratifying experiences of Sam’s life. Megatron made a soft sound in irritation before reaching out a servo to pull Sam’s hand away. His optics narrowed in consideration as they roamed over Sam’s face.

“Let this serve as a reminder to you.” Megatron rumbled lowly, “Decepticons do not sort their grievances with words, as Autobots do. The next time, you might not be so fortunate.”

When Megatron let go of his hand, Sam pressed the hem of his sleeve back against his face. The cut was small, as far as he could tell, maybe an inch or two across his cheekbone. It was bleeding freely, however, and Sam was sure that it needed stitches. He was just as sure that he wasn’t going to get them.

Megatron turned away without another word, striding back to the workstation that had occupied his attention all night. Sam sighed softly, sitting down on the floor and leaning against the clear paneling of the view screen. He sat there for a long while, the hem of his shirt pressed against his cheekbone, as the various hurts in his body marshalled against him. He was cold and hungry, his face hurt, and he had to use the bathroom. To the best of his knowledge, he had been on the bridge for eight or nine hours.

He glanced to the side and saw that Ravage had resumed her position beneath Soundwave’s chair. The surveillance officer was back at his station, his cables plugged into the terminal in front of him. Ravage stared at him intently, her ruby optic glinting in the shadows of the desk. Eventually, Sam looked away, staring steadfastly at the floor in front of him as his mind wandered. It would be about four o’clock in the afternoon on Diego Garcia. If Bumblebee was on shift, then he had Cliffjumper would be getting ready to head out on patrol. They would scout past the airfield first, then to Marianne Point, then they’d head to south-central—

Sam jerked his head back, his heart suddenly in his throat as he realized what he was doing. He turned to look at Megatron, but the Decepticon leader gave no indication that he was following Sam’s train of thought. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing his own stupidity, as he turned his mind away from thoughts about the scouts’ patrols.

By the time that Megatron stood up from the workstation, the sun was half-way to its zenith. Sam was physically and emotionally exhausted, his body aching with cold and hunger and pain. The Decepticon leader approached, his red optics narrowed in something like consideration as he stared down at him.

“It is time to go, little one.”

Sam gritted his teeth but he did not reply as he pushed himself to his feet. Megatron turned and strode from the bridge without a backwards glance, and Sam was forced to jog to keep up with him. The large mechanoid seemed introspective as they made their way through the depths of the _Nemesis_ , his mental presence quiet and distracted.

They rounded a corner and Sam pulled up short as he realized that they were headed in the direction of Megatron’s quarters. Fear and dread slammed through him in an instant, and the wild swing of adrenaline made Sam’s heart pound painfully against his ribs. He tensed instinctively, as though to bolt, when Megatron glanced over his shoulder in his direction.

“If you make me chase you through this ship, I promise that you will regret it.”

The warlord’s voice was harsh with irritation and Sam could not mistake the sincerity in his tone. Sam swallowed hard before looking up at him.

“Is this because of Barricade?” He asked.

Megatron turned slightly to regard him, the faintest trace of amusement on his faceplates, “You think that you are being punished.”

It was not a question but a statement, and Sam did not reply. He knew that Megatron would elaborate or he would not, regardless of what Sam said. After a long moment, the Decepticon turned around and continued walking in the direction of his quarters.

“If I punished my soldiers every time that they fought with one another, I would have lost this war mega-cycles ago.” He said, and there was definite amusement in his tone now, “Come.”

Sam hesitated for a long moment before he reluctantly started after the Decepticon leader. As soon as he put one foot in front of the other, he felt a warm brush of approval from across their bond, and Sam narrowed his eyes in response.

“Don’t do that.”

Megatron stopped in front of the familiar, nondescript door and keyed it open with a touch. He glanced down at Sam, shaking his helm minutely, “I have already told you that you do not give the orders on this ship.”

The warlord walked into his private quarters without another word. Sam set his jaw and squared his shoulders, steeling himself as well as he was able before following him.

The door hissed shut behind them, sealing itself with an electronic-sounding _clunk_.

Megatron moved about the space, obviously at ease. The room was the same as Sam remembered from his last visit, tidy and sparse, without anything remotely resembling a personal effect anywhere to be seen. Megatron stopped next to the large desk in the center of the room, picking up a datapad that he stared at considerately for a long while. Sam stood quietly by the door, anxiety and uncertainty churning in his stomach.

After a moment, Megatron glanced at him as though in exasperation.

“Well? You know where it is.”

Sam felt the color drain from his face as he pressed his back against the door. Megatron’s expression of exasperation tightened into one of irritation, and he scoffed softly.

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to coddle you.” He said, “Can you not smell yourself?”

Something about the warlord’s impatient, condescending tone inflamed something within him, and Sam’s fear flashed into hot anger in an instant.

“I smell like someone who’s being held against their will on an alien warship.” He snapped.

“You do.” Megatron agreed coolly, “And it is entirely disagreeable.”

Sam stared at him in astonishment for the space of a heartbeat before he hissed, “ _Disagreeable?”_

Megatron’s optics narrowed dangerously, “Either do it yourself or I will do it for you.”

There was something about the warlord’s tone that stilled him—a threat and a promise, both. Sam swallowed hard, his heart in his throat, before he pushed away from the door and strode towards the wash racks without another word. Megatron followed behind him, turning on the solvent before regarding him for a long moment.

“You will need to wash your garments if you want them clean—I do not have any others for you.”

Without waiting for Sam’s reply, he subspaced the familiar-looking metalmesh material and placed it on the floor away from the stream of solvent. Then, to Sam’s surprise, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sam stood still, expecting him to return, but instead he could make out the sounds of Megatron moving around the other room. After a long moment, Sam was able to identify the feeling that had lodged itself in his chest.

Appreciation.

He frowned deeply, quickly divesting himself of his clothing before stepping into the stream of solvent. It was hotter today and Sam choked back a groan as the heat soaked into his aching body. After a long moment, he began to work himself over with the small square of material, washing the sweat and blood off himself. He hissed in pain when the solvent got into the cut on his face, but he scrubbed his fingers through his hair all the same.

When he had finished, Sam stepped out of the stream of solvent and toweled himself off as quickly as he could manage. He glanced down at his clothes, frowning. The pants were fine, but his shirt was crusted with blood and sweat. After a moment, he grabbed the material and held it under the stream of solvent until it was thoroughly soaked. He scrubbed at it as best he could, before wringing the shirt out and pulling it on over his head. It was uncomfortably damp and cooled quickly in the chill of the room, but needs willed out.

Sam was in the process of rubbing the metalmesh over his hair when the stream of solvent cut-off abruptly. He huffed quietly, able to take a hint, and made his way out of the wash racks. To his surprise, Megatron was sitting at the desk in the center of the room, his back to him as he worked. Sam shifted uncertainly, wringing the metalmesh in his hands, but Megatron did not turn around. Eventually Sam sat down on the floor, leaning back against the wall as he waited for Megatron to tell him what to do. The room was noticeably warmer than the wash racks, although it was still uncomfortably cool. It was not long before Sam wrapped the damp metalmesh around his shoulders in an effort to get warm.

“Are you hungry?”

Sam glanced at the warlord in surprise, before frowning deeply. Megatron knew that he was hungry—he would be able to feel it across their bond or determine it with a cursory sensor sweep. Was he trying to engage him in conversation? Or was this some twisted power play?

Megatron turned in his seat to regard him, something like tolerant amusement in his optics.

“As I recall, you objected rather strenuously when you believed that I viewed you as a pet.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, going rigid in an instant.

“I’m not a pet.” He spat.

Megatron hummed in agreement.

“Indeed. As such, I expect you to tell me when you require something.” He commanded curtly, “Believe it or not, I have more pressing matters to attend to than ensuring that you are adequately fueled every hour of the day.”

Sam felt himself flush in embarrassment, “Why are you doing this?”

Megatron tilted his helm, something like curiosity flickering across his face.

“Doing what?”

Sam gestured vaguely between them, discomforted and irritated in equal measures, “This. Polite conversation interspersed with brutal torture. What’s your end game?”

To Sam’s surprise, Megatron chuckled softly, openly amused now.

“Would you prefer that I drop the polite conversation?”

Sam wrapped the metal mesh more tightly around himself, shrugging. “It would be less confusing.”

Megatron stood up, walking slowly towards him, and Sam was perfectly still as the warlord approached. He stopped, several feet away, before lowering into a loose crouch with his arms on his knee struts. He regarded Sam for a long moment, something like thoughtful consideration in his expression.

“You are confused only because you refuse to come to terms with your situation.”

Sam’s heart was beating hard against his ribs, but he forced himself to meet Megatron’s optics squarely.

“My situation?”

“That you are here. That you are mine.” Megatron leaned forward minutely, and Sam pressed back against the wall, “I am not in the habit of mistreating my property without good cause.”

Anger surged through him in an instant, hot and sharp, “I’m not your property, Megatron. Not now, not ever _._ ”

Megatron reached a servo towards him but Sam leaned away, his face tightening in a scowl.

“Don’t touch me.”

Megatron ignored him, the clawed tip of one digit stroking down the side of Sam’s face. The touch was gentle at first, leaving not so much as a red mark on his skin, but eventually the clawed tip dug uncomfortably into the flesh of Sam’s jaw—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make Sam go very still.

“It is clear that you are laboring under several misconceptions.” Megatron rumbled, and although his voice was calm and even, his words made Sam’s heart pound in his chest, “Allow me to correct them immediately. You, Samuel James Witwicky, are mine. That truth was self-evident from the moment that you tried to extinguish my spark.”

Sam flinched and tried to pull away, but Megatron pressed the tip of his clawed digit into the flesh of Sam’s jaw until it stole a soft sound of pain from him.

“As such, you will afford me the courtesy and respect that is owed to my station. Any display of defiance or disobedience, such as yesterday’s outburst on the bridge, will be dealt with accordingly.” Megatron moved to stroke the tip of his finger down the side of Sam’s face again, his voice a quiet rumble when he spoke, “Do you understand?”

Sam could not reply around the lump that was lodged in his throat, but he nodded faintly. Megatron rumbled approvingly and then he asked, “Is there something that you need?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation as a blush spread across his face. He had to swallow twice before he could manage to murmur, “I’m hungry.”

Megatron leaned back on his heels, subspacing a bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal, which he handed to Sam without comment. Sam accepted the items silently, unable to meet the Decepticon’s gaze. As Sam tore the top off the pre-packaged meal, Megatron made his way back to the desk and sat down. Sam ate slowly, his aching hunger at odds with his roiling stomach. He was half-way through the packaged meal when Sam realized that he had no idea what he was eating. A quick glance revealed that it was chicken risotto, and he grimaced deeply. It might as well have been wet cement.

When he finished, he wiped his fingers on his damp shirt and took a slow drink of water. The food had taken the edge off his nausea and left him feeling comfortably full. All that remained of his earlier hurts was a leaden tiredness that numbed his mind and pulled at his consciousness. He stayed there for a long time, struggling to stay awake as Megatron worked silently at his desk. More than once, a hypnagogic jerk startled him into full wakefulness from the hazy half-sleep into which he had fallen.

When Sam jerked awake for the third time, he startled to find Megatron crouched down in front of him. The warlord extended a servo towards him without comment, but Sam stared back uncomprehendingly. When Megatron beckoned with his fingertips, Sam realized what he was asking.

“Not a chance.” He rasped, his voice rough from sleep.

Sam felt an answering swell of irritation from across their bond, but rather than reply, Megatron reached forward and grabbed him around the waist. Sam stiffened from head to toe, fear lodging itself in his throat in an instant. The warlord curled Sam close to his chest as he straightened and crossed the room, before depositing him on the large berth against the wall.

“Sleep.”

“What, here?” Sam demanded, anxiety making his words sharp.

Megatron ex-vented loudly, obviously at the end of his patience, “Would you have preferred the floor?”

“Yes!” 

“Well, I would not.” Megatron replied simply, and then Sam scrambled backwards as the large mechanoid settled himself down on the berth. Sam’s back collided with the wall as he stared at him incredulously.

“What are you doing?”

“Recharging, now be quiet.” Megatron replied without deigning to look at him.

“Are you _glitched_? I’m not sleeping here with you.”

“Do as I say.”

Sam went cold with anger, but before he could say anything, he felt Megatron’s mental presence shift forward. The Decepticon’s intention was clear and, although Sam resisted, the darkness of unconsciousness swallowed him a moment later.

* * *

Once again, Sam dreamed in memories and emotion.

The water around Marianne Point glittered in the early morning light, calm and serene. There was a blur of movement and then gravel crunched loudly as they accelerated down the road towards the southern quadrant.

Trees flashed passed on either side of the road, and Sam could just make out the cerulean water through the underbrush. The dream was so real that he could almost smell the salt water in the air, could almost feel the warm sun against his body.

The dream went on and Sam slowly became aware of Bumblebee’s comforting presence. The scout was just as he remembered him, gleaming yellow in the early morning light. Eventually, he became aware of Cliffjumper and Sunstreaker, who followed behind them at a distance.

As they drove together, time and scenery blurred together confusingly. First, they were at East Point, then Cust Point, and then East Point again. The throaty sound of engines filled the air, drowning out the distant hiss of waves on sand.

The memory left a terrible ache of homesickness and grief in his gut—it was the same feeling that was omnipresent through their spark bond. It was an ache born of loss.

Mindlessly, Sam brushed against Bumblebee’s mental presence—

Sam jerked awake to find himself back within Megatron’s personal quarters. The room was dark, illuminated only by the weak glow of Megatron’s spark that was just visible through the seams of his armor. Sam was lying on his side, less than an arms-width away from the Decepticon leader’s chassis. Although the air of the room was cool, Sam was comfortably warm owing to the heat that radiated from Megatron’s body.

Swallowing the despair that rose in his throat, Sam rolled over to face the wall.

* * *

Fourteen thousand kilometers away, Bumblebee slammed on his breaks and fishtailed to a stop over the packed gravel road. Sunstreaker and Cliffjumper swerved to avoid him, but the yellow scout barely registered their presence.

He had felt it. For a fraction of a second, he had felt it.

_Sam._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for your comments, bookmarks, and kudos on the last chapter. It means more to me than I can say. I read every comment and visit every profile that bookmarks/leaves kudos. You guys mean the world to me!
> 
>  **Warning** : Emotional and mental abuse, isolation, and (mild) self-harm.

Sam woke to the sensation of gentle stroking up and down his back. He was momentarily disoriented, images of white sand and cerulean water fading away as his consciousness slowly returned. He reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting in the dim light of Megatron’s quarters. He was lying on his side, facing the wall, with the metalmesh fabric tangled around his legs. He made a soft sound of disapproval, raising a hand to scrub across his face. The gentle stroking continued, from shoulder to hip, again and again.

“Would you stop that?” Sam groused irritably, tossing the words over his shoulder without turning to look at the warlord. 

Megatron rumbled lowly in amusement, but he did not cease the soft touches across Sam’s back. After a moment, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position with a grunt, leaning back against the wall to glare at the Decepticon leader. Megatron was reclined against the head of the berth, a datapad in his lap and a large cube in his hand. The translucent container was roughly a cubic meter in volume, and the liquid within glowed a soft pink. As Sam watched, Megatron brought the cube to his intakes and swallowed a portion of the glowing fluid.

Sam made a soft noise of surprise, and Megatron quirked a brow ridge in his direction.

“Surely you know about energon?” The Decepticon leader asked, and beneath the sardonic tone, Sam could detect a note of incredulity.

“Of course I do.” Sam replied, feeling uncharacteristically defensive, “I just haven’t seen it before.”

Megatron’s expression turned skeptical, “You have spent all of this time in the presence of the Autobots and you have never seen refined energon?”

Sam narrowed his eyes, “Ratchet says that it’s toxic in its refined form.”

“It is, for most organics.” Megatron agreed, “But you have Allspark energy radiating from your body at a cellular level. Surely, Prime’s Chief Medical Officer was capable of puzzling that out?”

Sam bristled, affronted anger flashing through him in an instant. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Megatron regarded him for a long moment, his expression almost contemplative, before he replied.

“Be calm, little one. I meant no insult to your Creator.”

Sam frowned, taken aback by the warlord’s placating tone. He searched Megatron’s face, looking for any sign of deceit or sarcasm, but he was unable to detect anything other than stark honesty. Megatron raised the cube to his intakes, swallowing once again, before transferring the vessel to his other servo and extending it towards Sam.

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord, and he hesitated for only a moment before leaning forward to regard the viscous substance. The energon was smooth and thick with a glossy sheen. It glowed faintly, weakly illuminating Megatron’s servo and Sam’s face. The liquid did not emit any particular smell that Sam could detect, but it did exude weak fumes that irritated his nose and throat.

After a moment, Sam leaned back against the wall. 

“I’d prefer a burger and fries, any day of the week.”

Megatron rumbled amusedly as he tilted his helm, “That is because you do not know any better.”

Sam’s eyes snapped to the warlord’s face, completely taken aback by his tone. Before he could reply however, Megatron raised the cube to his mouthplates and took another unhurried drink. All at once, the Creator bond flared to life between them, and Sam vicariously experienced the pleasant warmth as energon slid towards Megatron’s fuel tanks. It was thick and rich and satisfying—like hot coffee, first thing in the morning or a cold beer on a summer’s afternoon—and Sam swallowed reflexively.

Megatron’s mouthplates quirked up, “Indeed.”

Sam shook his head sharply, the spell broken, before narrowing his eyes at the Decepticon, “Stay out of my head.”

 _//What did I say about giving me orders, little one?//_ Megatron rebuked, although there was no heat in it. Sam struggled not to flinch, leveling the Decepticon with a glare.

“Stay out of my head, _please._ ”

To Sam’s consternation, Megatron actually chuckled before withdrawing his mental presence. The Decepticon leader finished the remainder of the energon as he read from the datapad in his lap. Sam shifted, resting his arms across his legs, as he waited with growing irritation. After a long while, Megatron subspaced the empty cube and turned to level Sam with an expectant look.

“Do you need anything?”

Sam set his jaw, irritation sharpening into resentment in an instant. He toyed with the idea of declining, of telling Megatron that he was fine, but he was sure that the Decepticon leader would punish him by withholding food and water until he begged for it. After the aching hunger that Sam had suffered the day before, he was keen not to repeat the experience. Abruptly, something petty within Sam spurred him to take the opposite approach.

“Yes, actually. I’d like something to eat and drink, and then I need to use the bathroom. In that order.” Sam tilted his head, his expression one of polite curiosity, “And if you’re taking requests, it would be nice if you could either find me some warmer clothes or turn up the heat.”

Megatron’s mouthplates quirked again, but he did not comment on Sam’s goading tone. Instead, he subspaced the familiar rations and handed them across the berth, accompanying them with a perceptible pulse of approval. Sam shifted his mental presence away, his baiting demeanor replaced with sullen resentment as he accepted the items.

The Decepticon glanced back towards the datapad he now held in a servo, shifting his attention away from Sam as he started to eat. Sam did not bother glancing at the pre-packed meal—it didn’t matter what it was, he would have to eat it anyway—working through the cold food as quickly as he could manage. The water was stale and cool, but Sam drank it readily all the same.

By the time that he had finished, Sam realized that Megatron was staring at him once again. He glanced at the Decepticon leader, stiffening slightly at the contemplative look on his faceplates.

“What?”

“Your face.” Megatron rumbled, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice. Sam frowned, raising his fingers to touch the wound on his cheekbone that he had received during Frenzy’s attack. He could tell now that there were two small lacerations, each about an inch long and parallel to one another. They had already crusted over with thin, dry scabs, well on their way to being fully healed.

Sam grimaced, trying to keep his mind perfectly blank. He was well aware of what the Decepticon leader was asking.

“I was in your memories, little one.” Megatron chided, as though Sam needed the reminder, “I am aware that the Allspark energy has seemingly halted your aging. Has it also affected your ability to repair yourself?”

Sam tried to keep the knowledge out of the forefront of his mind, but it was no use. Megatron’s mental presence barely needed to shift forward before the information tumbled across their bond. The Decepticon leader’s optics sharpened, something analytical and searching in his expression.

“This is unexpected, although perhaps it should not have been.” Megatron rumbled, a dry admission, before pinning Sam with an expectant look, “What does your medic say on the matter?”

Sam was silent, gripping the water bottle until the plastic protested. He knew what Ratchet had said about his accelerated healing, but he did not know what the medic would expect of him in this situation. Would he want Sam to tell Megatron what he knew, to avoid the punishment that would surely result from disobedience? Or would he want Sam to resist, to refuse to give an inch to the pit-spawned, megalomaniacal—

“I would advise you to tell me what I want to know—and to censor yourself.” Megatron interrupted his train of thought, and there was a sharp note of irritation in the warlord’s tone.

Sam gritted his teeth, his own irritation swelling at the words. He couldn’t help every random, unflattering thought that crossed his mind. Sam opened his mouth to say as much when Megatron’s irritation and impatience flared brightly across their bond.

“Then you would do well to keep your thoughts to yourself and _do as I say_.”

Unable to see an alternative, Sam lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug, “Ratchet says that the Allspark energy has given me accelerated healing. He doesn’t know how or why it works, just that it does. It brought me back to life after Ripcord killed me, and it—“

Sam bit off his words as a tsunami of black rage flooded across their bond, before pulling away from the furious Decepticon in front of him.

“He what?” Megatron growled, his optics narrowed dangerously.

Sam swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, as fear and confusion twisted together in his stomach.

“I thought you knew.” He replied, hating the unsteadiness of his voice, “It’s how I on-lined.”

Megatron held himself perfectly still, his narrowed optics the only thing that betrayed his fury. Across their bond, however, Sam could feel the agitation and aggression of his mental presence, which sought to _lash out_ and _punish_ anyone who dared defy the Lord High Protector. It was the same volatile, barely contained energy of nitroglycerine—and Sam was forcibly reminded that the mechanoid beside him was a threat and an enemy, both.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Megatron’s optics lost their murderous edge and the tempest that was his mental presence slowly calmed.

“What happened?” Megatron asked at last. Although his voice was tight, it was restrained.

Sam hesitated, “It was when you attacked the energy infrastructures at the end of January. Ripcord separated me from the Autobots and then he killed me.”

“Yet you survived. How precisely?”

“Well, he didn’t do it quickly.” Sam replied dryly, although there was something vulnerable in his tone, “He made Optimus watch as I bled out. Ratchet used the time to prepare the medical bay, and when I on-lined, he had me stable enough that I survived the process.”

Megatron regarded him intently as he spoke, “Those were not his orders. I wanted you alive.”

Sam scoffed softly, “That’s very comforting.”

“You are _mine._ ” Megatron growled, “To raise a hand against you is to raise a hand against me.”

He flinched way from the possessive tone, trying not to betray his confusion and discomfort. It was becoming readily apparent that the social norms and expectations of Decepticon society were far more layered than Sam had previously understood. Ripcord’s attack had been a grave offence, but Soundwave’s torture and Frenzy’s assault had both been within acceptable limits.

Once again, Megatron’s mental presence mellowed, taking on a tolerant edge.

“You will learn in time.”

Before Sam could reply, Megatron pushed himself off the berth and rose to his considerable height. He extended a servo towards Sam, who hesitated for only a moment before climbing to his feet and stepping into the warlord’s palm. As he had yesterday, Megatron curled Sam close to his chest as he walked towards the wash racks. Megatron left him to take care of his bodily functions and, once he was finished, they walked together to the bridge.

As he had the day before, Sam took note of each door, passageway, and terminal that they passed. He was beginning to develop a rudimentary understanding of the layout of the warship. It was information that he hoped would prove useful, whether in an escape or as intelligence to provide the Autobots. He tried to keep these thoughts out of the forefront of his mind, but judging by the sardonic edge to Megatron’s mental presence, he was not entirely successful.

They turned down the corridor towards the bridge, and Megatron stopped to press the passcode into the keypad by the door. Immediately, the doors slid open and Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline in surprise. The view screen at the other end of the bridge was muted white, and the light within the room was mellow and soft. Sam followed Megatron through the doors and, when the Decepticon leader took his customary spot at the starboard workstation, Sam wandered towards the view screens. It took him a minute to realize what he was looking at. It was snowing.

No, Sam corrected himself. It was _storming_.

Snow fell so thickly that he could not see the craggy rocks beneath them, if indeed they were still maintaining their location above the mountains. The snow swirled and hissed faintly as it buffeted against the view screens. Sam stared in rapt amazement, an indefinable feeling lodging itself in his chest—it was one of the most beautiful things that he had seen in his life.

Unbidden, Sam raised a hand and pressed it against the transparent paneling. Frigid cold soaked into his palm, but he left his hand pressed there for a long time. He could almost imagine what the fine grains of ice would feel like falling on his skin. Eventually, the cold began to ache and he pulled his hand away to tuck it under his armpit, but he did not move. He stood there for what must have been hours, watching as the storm raged around them in undisguised enjoyment.

Sometime later, after the storm had calmed and the pristine white mountains were once again visible beneath them, Sam settled against the floor and observed the comings and goings of the bridge. Thundercracker had left his post sometime during Sam’s woolgathering, replaced by Starscream. The second-in-command sat in silence, his wingplates flicking occasionally as he worked. Unlike the other times that Sam had visited the bridge, Soundwave was not at his terminal. Instead, a red, black, and purple mechanoid sat at the post. The unknown Decepticon had two scabbarded swords attached to his hip struts, and a massive broadsword across his back.

The bridge was quiet, interrupted only by an occasional rumble of machinery or a terse string of Cybertronian from one of the mechanoids.

It was not long before Sam realized that he was well and truly bored. Eventually he turned his mind inwards, towards the neural network. The vast, dark space was mostly still and quiet. Sam could sense the three spark signatures of the Decepticons on the bridge, as well as several others milling about the interior of the ship. He recognized Knock Out’s copper-red signature somewhere nearby, but the others were unknown to him. Sam was careful to keep his mental presence to himself and the egress filter drawn tightly over his mind. The Autobots had been tolerant of his fumbling inquiries over the neural-net, but Sam had no desire to find out whether the same would be true of the Decepticons.

Eventually, Sam found himself leaning against an empty workstation not far from the view screens. The warmth from the terminal helped to take the edge off the aching cold in the room. He sat with his arms crossed over his torso and his knees drawn loosely up to his chest, drowsing lightly in the quiet of the bridge.

“Sam.”

He jerked awake in surprise, his heart hammering in his throat. As Sam struggled to straighten up, he realized that Skywarp was crouching down a short distance away. One of the Seeker’s large servos was cupped in front of him and, as Sam stared in confusion, Skywarp extended it towards him. Sam glanced down reflexively and made a soft noise in disbelief. There, rapidly melting in the Decepticon’s loose grip, was a pile of snow. Sam looked up, catching Skywarp’s gaze with a question in his eyes.

“I heard you liked it.” He said, by way of explanation.

Sam couldn’t help the half-smile that pulled at the corners of his lips. He reached out a tentative hand, brushing his fingers over the cold substance. He was surprised by how _wet_ it felt for solid precipitation. For some reason, he had thought that it would feel fluffier. Sam scooped up a palmful of snow, bringing it close to his face to inspect. He had heard once that no two snowflakes were the same, and upon inspection, he saw a variety of geometric shapes—all hexagonal structures, some with long needlelike arms and others with wide-flat arms. Sam rubbed the snow between his fingertips, marveling at how it melted away instantly. When he squeezed his palm closed, the snow solidified into a hard ball, more ice-like than snow-like.

He glanced up at Skywarp, who was watching him with open amusement.

“Thank-you.” Sam said softly, and he meant it. Skywarp whistled at him in Cybertronian, lifting a pauldron in a shrug. Although Sam could not understand the words, he understood the sentiment: _no problem._

“That’s going to melt, you know, and I’m not cleaning it up.” Starscream put in snidely, immediately shattering their quiet comradery. Sam went still, a flush spreading across his cheeks as he was reminded, once again, exactly where he was and whom he was with. Skywarp glanced over his shoulder, warbling something in sarcastic-sounding Cybertronian. Starscream scoffed loudly and then Skywarp glanced back towards Sam.

“It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”

Sam murmured his thanks, but placed the snowball back in Skywarp’s palm. His was suddenly no longer in the mood for playtime. Skywarp looked at him for a long moment before he straightened and moved away without another word. Sam glanced down at his hands, which were a deep pink-red, before tucking them between his legs for warmth.

He sat there like that for a long while, the egress filter drawn so tightly over his mind that it ached. He had been on the _Nemesis_ for less than a week, insofar as he could tell, and already he was able to fall asleep in a room surrounded by Decepticons—including Megatron and Starscream. He frowned deeply, anxiety and shame churning in his gut. These were not his friends, regardless of the tokens of kindness that they deigned to afford him. They were _Decepticons_. They would kill—and had killed—his Autobots, without a second thought. While he sat there, napping or playing with snow, Bumblebee, Optimus, and Ratchet were certainly going out of their minds with worry and grief. Why wasn’t he fighting harder?

What the fuck was _wrong_ with him?

As Sam’s thoughts grew darker with shame and guilt, he felt Megatron’s mental scrutiny across their bond. The cool contemplation that he felt there, edged with curiosity and interest, ignited a fury within him.

 _//Get out of my head.//_ Sam snapped viciously.

He felt Megatron’s mental presence darken slightly, irritation spilling across their bond.

 _//Mind yourself, little one.//_ Megatron replied. Although his tone was mild, Sam could hear the warning in his words.

Sam turned his head to narrow his eyes at the Decepticon leader. Megatron had not moved from his workstation since he had first arrived and, although the warlord did not look at him, Sam knew that he had his full attention.

 _//My thoughts are my business.//_ Sam replied coldly.

 _//I thought I had made myself clear last night. Evidentially, I was mistaken.//_ Megatron rumbled, his mental presence crowding the Creator bond. Sam’s fury flared hotly in his chest at the intrusion, and he pulled away as far as the bond would allow.

 _//You made yourself perfectly clear.//_ Sam replied tightly, glaring openly at the warlord, _//You’re just wrong.//_

Megatron turned away from his workstation to glance down at him, censure written all over his faceplates.

_//I fail to see how that is so. Whether you are amenable to the fact is irrelevant.//_

_//Is that why you are making me sit here and freeze my ass off?//_ Sam demanded caustically, _//Because I am done playing house with you.//_

All at once, Megatron’s presence was inside Sam’s head, his mental fingers digging into Sam’s mind. Sam made a soft sound of pain as he squeezed his eyes shut, but that did not prevent him from hearing the warlord approach.

“If you feel the need to be reminded of your place, I am happy to do so,” He growled, “But acting out will not end favorably for you.” Megatron’s words were punctuated with a sharp mental shake that caused a familiar headache to bloom through Sam’s head. After a long moment, Sam forced himself to look Megatron directly in the optics.

“Don’t touch me.”

He felt the flare of anger a moment before Megatron _twisted_ their bond, and sharp pain poured through Sam’s synapses. Sam cried out loudly, his hands flying to his head, but the pain disappeared just as quickly as it came. When Sam cracked open his watering eyes a moment later, he saw that Megatron had crouched over him, crowding both his physical and mental space.

“You do not command me.” Megatron rumbled lowly, “I will not remind you again.”

Sam did not reply, his eyes falling to the deck of the bridge as Megatron leaned his full mental weight against his mind. It was an impossibly intense sensation, bordering on the edge of pain, and it was unquestionably a warning. Sam stayed like that, eyes downcast and still, for a long moment before Megatron rumbled softly.

“Now thank me for my patience.”

Sam’s eyes snapped up to the warlord’s face, hot rage burning through him in an instant.

“ _Never_.” He spat, balling his hands into fists. Immediately, agony burned through him as Megatron sank his mental fingers deeper into Sam’s mind. The pain lasted noticeably longer this time, and when it finally disappeared, Sam found himself gasping desperately against the cold metal floor.

“Thank me for my patience.” Megatron repeated, his voice deceptively calm and measured. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as humiliation joined the rage that burned in his chest. After everything that Megatron had done, after all of the atrocities that he had committed, Sam would _never_ —

White-hot pain burned through his synapses, eclipsing all rational thought. He heard himself cry out sharply, agony in his voice, as his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the smooth metal beneath his hands. This time the pain did not go away, it merely eased back as Sam gasped loudly, his heart hammering painfully in his chest.

“I won’t ask you again.”

Sam sucked a shaky breath into his starving lungs, pressing his forehead against the floor. He was distantly aware of the wetness on his cheeks, but whether it was from sweat or tears, he could not say. The entire time that he struggled to get himself under control, he was aware of Megatron’s mental presence—observant and severe.

Sam could not dredge up the fortitude to defy the Decepticon leader again, so he squeezed his eyes shut and waited. He knew the exact moment that Megatron’s patience reached its limit. The warlord pressed against Sam’s mind, slowly and purposefully, without a hint of vindictiveness, and Sam’s world was subsumed by agony. The pain burned him from the inside out, obliterating all higher cognitive function. There was no room for thoughts of anger or defiance, no ability to sense what was happening around him. His entire world, his entire being, was narrowed to the relentless torture in his head. Sam knew that he must have been screaming, begging, but he heard nothing over the static steadily building in his ears.

When Sam finally passed out, it was a mercy.

* * *

Sam’s return to consciousness was a lesson in suffering.

The first time that he woke, the pain in his mind was so profound that he passed out again shortly thereafter.

The next time that awareness filtered through his mind, he was able to roll onto his side. The cold metal floor pressing against his face was a small comfort, and Sam laid there with his eyes closed as he focused on his breathing. It was a long time before he was cognizant enough to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. When he did, he found that was back within the confines of his cell in the large hangar. The room was empty, the metalmesh blanket and bottle of water apparently removed in his absence. He lowered his head again, closing his eyes as he willed the pain in his mind to recede.

When next that he woke, Sam was feeling only marginally better. The chill in the room had deepened noticeably, however, and he was shivering weakly against the floor. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, slowly making his way over to the wall. He curled against the narrow bulkhead, wrapping his arms around his torso. He sat there for a long while, too exhausted to move but too pained to sleep. At some point, Sam realized that there was dried blood crusted in both of his nostrils and flaked on his face. He raised the hem of his sleeve to scrub at himself, but the motion set off a fresh wave of agony in his mind and he relented immediately. 

His head pounded in rhythm with his pulse, an ebb-and-flow of pain that took hours to abate. When Sam felt reasonably better, he forced himself to climb to his feet and made his way over to the waste disposal system in the corner. After he finished, he stumbled back to his spot by the bulkhead, settling against the wall. As the pain receded from his mind, Sam reflected on what had happened on the bridge. Although the repercussions of defying Megatron had been terrible, a small part of him was relieved. He wasn’t completely lost.

When Sam woke up an interminable time later, he was surprised to find a bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal just inside his cell. He stared at the items for a long while, before pushing himself to his feet and making his way across the space. He sat down a short distance away, reaching out to grab the water. He drank deeply, his mouth and throat painfully dry. Despite his thirst, he forced himself to stop when the bottle was half-empty, capping it and setting it aside before he picked up the MRE. He glanced down at the package briefly—shredded beef in barbeque sauce—before working through the meal with his fingers. The food was cold and oily, and it settled uncomfortably in his stomach, but Sam forced himself to eat. When he finished half the meal, he folded the top of the package over on itself, grabbed the bottle of water, and made his way back to the bulkhead. He stashed the remainder of his meal against the wall, and settled down to wait.

As the hours dragged on without any sign of Megatron, Sam cautiously turned his mind inwards, before jerking back in surprise. For the first time since he had awoken on the _Nemesis_ , Sam found himself within the confines of the Creator bond. The bond-space was dark and silent, without so much as a flicker of Megatron’s presence. He frowned deeply, turning his mind outwards, but he was blocked from the neural network by impenetrable firewalls. For the first time since Sam had on-lined, he was completely alone inside of his head.

A quiet sense of apprehension settled in his stomach.

As the hours passed, his apprehension sharpened into anxiety. Sam had nothing to tell the passage of time except for his own bodily functions. By the time that his hunger was carving the inside of his ribs, he figured that it had been seven or eight hours since he had eaten. He glanced at the bottle of water and half-empty meal package. He was hungry, but if the Decepticons had left the ship then he could not be certain when his next meal might be. Sam turned away from the items, pacing restlessly as the anxiety in his gut intensified with each passing hour.

He made it four more hours before he broke down and finished the remainder of his meal.

With no more food and water, and no idea whether he was alone on the ship or not, Sam’s anxiety transitioned into the first stirrings of genuine fear. He alternated his time between pacing the perimeter of his cell and exploring every inch of the energy barrier that separated him from the rest of the hangar. Eventually, he found himself back against the bulkhead. It was a long while before his mental and physical exhaustion overpowered the fear tightening his gut, allowing him to drop off into a restless slumber.

When Sam woke up, the first thing that he saw was another bottle of water and a pre-packaged meal waiting just inside the energy barrier. All at once, Sam understood—this was part of his punishment. He would stay here until Megatron got what he wanted. Sam laughed quietly under his breath. If the warlord thought that being left alone to his own devices, unbothered by Decepticons and unworried about the possibility of more torture, was going to work out in his favor, he had another thing coming. Sam tore off the top of the pre-packaged meal, feeling better than he had since he’d woken up in Megatron’s cockpit.

His days settled into a predictable routine. When he woke up, he found food and water waiting just inside the energy barrier of his cell. The empty packages from the previous day would be missing, regardless of where Sam had left them. If Sam had not finished his previous day’s meal, then no new food would be waiting for him when he woke up. He spent his waking hours trying to amuse himself. He paced the room, prodded at the energy barrier, played mind games, and (eventually) started to practice his firewalling. His first few days in isolation were a welcome respite, but as the time dragged on, Sam’s earlier confidence quickly eroded.

By the time that he hit the one-week mark, his good mood had vanished entirely. Worry and anxiety were constantly on the edge of his mind as he struggled to keep himself distracted.

By the time that he hit the second week mark, he knew that he was in trouble. He no longer paced the room or played his word association game. He spent his waking hours curled against the bulkhead, murmuring reassuringly to himself. When he managed to fall asleep, his dreams were ugly. He often woke up to the sound of his own screaming, soaked in sweat and shaking like a rescue animal.

By the third week mark, he started hallucinating. Glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eyes, whispers that he could just hear on the edge of his awareness. More than once, he heard a familiar voice—Bumblebee, his mother, Ratchet—call out his name. By the third or fourth time that it happened, Sam stopped responding.

As the days dragged on, he lost all concept of the passage of time. Sometimes when the food arrived, he was ravenous, as though he had not eaten in days. Other times, he still had the taste of his previous meal in the back of his mouth.

It was several hours after he had woken up, on an otherwise nondescript day, when he abruptly tasted blood. He glanced down in surprise, only to notice that he was chewing his fingernails. He had mindlessly chewed past the nailbed on one finger, which was bleeding profusely. The sight of blood, drawn without realizing it owing to his mental state, shocked him to his core. As he stared at his hand, nails chewed down and fingertips raw, Sam felt himself break.

Sam turned his thoughts inward, brushing tentatively against the block that separated him from Megatron’s mental presence. After an agonizing few moments, there was a perceptible _shift_ in their bond, and he knew that Megatron was paying attention. Sam felt a swell of relief and he squeezed his eyes shut against the emotion that threatened to choke him.

_//Thank-you for your patience.//_

Megatron’s presence filled Sam’s mind, calm and approving.

_//You are welcome, little one.//_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious, Sam was in isolation for 27 days before he broke. None of his dark thoughts, nightmares, hallucinations, or self-harm was the result of external influence. These are all common experiences among victims of prolonged isolation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am sounding like a broken record, but I was absolutely blown away by the feedback and support I received on the last chapter. I can't begin to express my appreciation--you guys rock.
> 
> If you are interested, this is how I picture [Sam's physical appearance](https://external-preview.redd.it/Ix2fw8n59VktUPaXk2Dr7iyIJXKUNmuqb8CZ2-0xqP8.jpg?auto=webp&s=34433ae3fd5121ed531a71276cd512c06e5b6c70) in this chapter (including his new scar, courtesy of Frenzy!)
> 
>  **Content warning** \- Forced nudity, non-consensual touching, edging very slightly into non-con territory (if you squint).

Sam stood by the energy barrier, his head pitched forward and his eyes closed. The sound of his own harsh breathing was loud in the stillness of the hangar, but he barely noticed. His attention was focused inwards towards the Creator bond, which was alight with sensation for the first time in his long isolation. Megatron’s presence filled his mind, still and purposeful—a soothing counterbalance to the turmoil of relief and shame and despair that burned through him. It felt good and centering. Calming.

He swallowed hard, hating himself. It was Megatron’s fault that he had suffered alone. He should be resisting him, he should be angry—

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it was washed away by a pacifying _pulse_ from across their bond. Sam’s breath stuttered out of him, and he instinctively leaned into the feather-soft sensation.

“Sam.”

Sam flinched violently, his eyes snapping open in surprise. Megatron stood directly in front of him, his red optics preternaturally bright in the dimness of the hangar. Somehow, the Decepticon had approached and deactivated the energy barrier of his cell without Sam noticing. Sam stared up at him, torn by conflicting but equally intense emotions—hatred and appreciation, resentment and relief. Once again, Megatron’s presence brushed across his mind.

Unable to prevent it, Sam made a soft sound in response.

Megatron’s optics sharpened knowingly. He crouched down, extending a servo towards him, “Come along, little one.”

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he stepped forward, allowing Megatron to pick him up. The Decepticon brought Sam close to his chest as he straightened and strode from the hangar. Sam’s eyes fluttered shut as he was pressed against Megatron’s chest armor. The metal was warm against him, radiating a pleasant heat that soaked into his body.

It was the first time in weeks that Sam didn’t ache with cold.

Megatron walked purposefully into the corridor and through the _Nemesis_. Sam was only peripherally aware of their route, distracted as he was by the warmth around him and the pleasant sensation of their bond-space. Eventually, Megatron stopped outside of the familiar nondescript door of his personal quarters, pausing only long enough to press the passcode into the keypad set into the wall. The doors hissed openly and Megatron walked into the spartan apartment, making his way across the space into the small, interior room. Sam raised his head, uncertainty and apprehension blooming in the pit of his stomach. Megatron crouched, placing Sam down beside the large metal grate set into the floor, before rising to turn on the flow of solvent. The liquid streamed from the ceiling, steaming in the chilly room. Sam glanced up at Megatron to find the Decepticon leader looking down at him expectantly. The uncertainty and apprehension in his stomach sharpened into fear in an instant. Before he could open his mouth to plead, he felt Megatron’s mental presence wrap around him. It was a heavy sensation, but it was not at all unpleasant. 

“You will feel better after you have bathed.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the sincerity that he felt across their bond. It was true that it had been weeks since he had showered, but that did little to abate his humiliation and fear. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and stared at the steady stream of solvent in front of him. Megatron stood a short distance away, regarding him without so much as a flicker of impatience or irritation.

Eventually, Sam’s shoulders curled forward in resignation. He reached down, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. As soon as the material was off, he broke out into gooseflesh in the cool air of the room. Shivering, he unfastened his fly and slid his pants down over hips that jutted more prominently than they did when he had first arrived. A blush stole up his neck and across his face as he removed the last of his clothing. Without waiting to be told, Sam stepped forward into the stream of solvent. He ducked his head into the fluid, scrubbing at his scalp with raw fingertips, determined to finish as quickly as possible. Suddenly, a large servo came to rest against his back. Sam startled violently, jerking away, but Megatron pressed forward. After a panicked moment, Sam realized that the Decepticon held a square of metalmesh material in his servo, which he drew over Sam’s back and shoulders. Sam went very still, his heart hammering in his throat.

“I can do that.” Sam managed, his voice low and strangled.

Megatron did not reply, drawing the cloth up his back again, before nudging meaningfully against his side.

“Don’t.” Sam whispered, but it was a request more than a demand. He felt Megatron’s mental presence sharpen in displeasure, and Sam flinched in response. “Please don’t.” He tried instead.

Rather than responding, Megatron nudged him again, more purposefully this time. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, burning with humiliation, and turned around obediently. Megatron drew the cloth over Sam’s shoulders and down his chest, causing the muscles of Sam’s stomach to tighten uncomfortably. Megatron was thorough in his ministrations, washing his arms and torso before moving the cloth between Sam’s legs. Sam went very still, closing his eyes as though that would prevent what was happening to him. Mercifully, Megatron did not linger. When he finished, Sam felt the warlord shift away, and then a single clawed digit ran down the length of Sam’s spine as a warm pulse of approval flooded his mind. A moment later, the solvent cut off and then Sam found himself wrapped in a large square of metalmesh. Megatron dried him off with the same care that he had bathed him, and then he subspaced a pile of clothing.

Sam took the pile without a word, moving to get dressed, before Megatron hooked the tip of a digit under Sam’s chin and raised his head.

“You did well.”

He flinched at the compliment and all that it signified, but he did not protest or pull away. After a long moment, he felt Megatron’s mental presence shift forward. It was a familiar gesture, the same that he felt before Megatron punished him, and Sam stiffened in panic. Before he could react, however, pleasant heat blossomed through his mind and he gasped in surprise. The sensation was the antithesis of the agony that he usually felt, all lightness and warmth, and Sam found himself leaning against Megatron’s mental presence in response. Megatron rumbled in approval, stroking gently across Sam’s mind. The enjoyable sensation lingered for a long moment, before Megatron’s mental presence shifted away.

“Get dressed.”

Sam swayed, unbalanced by his abrupt absence, before moving to comply. He was surprised to see that the clothing, a flannel-fleece blend, was appreciably warmer than the previous clothing that Megatron had afforded him. He pulled the pants on first, fastening them quickly. Although they were his size, they fit loosely around his hips. The long-sleeved shirt was next and then he crouched to pull on his socks and shoes. 

When he straightened, he turned to look at Megatron. The warlord stared down at him, as though deep in thought, before reaching forward to pick him up. Although Sam stiffened in surprise, he did not protest or struggle. Megatron strode out of the wash racks and into the main room, heading towards the berth against the far wall. With surprising care, the warlord deposited Sam onto the large metal surface before stepping away.

“Rest now. We will speak later.”

Sam watched as Megatron turned and walked towards the desk in the center of the room. The warlord sat, his back mostly towards the berth, before picking up one of the datapads in front of him. Megatron turned it on with a press of a tensor, flicking through the digital file. When it became clear that Megatron was focused on his work, Sam moved to sit with his back against the wall. He watched the Decepticon for a long while, his thoughts skipping over everything that had happened since he had woken up. He was familiar with the shame and anger that burned through him—those emotions had been his constant companions since he had been captured—but the relief and appreciation were new. Sam understood that it was just his brain chemistry fucking with him, but that in no way assuaged the bitter confusion he felt.

Eventually, Megatron ex-vented a soft snort.

“I am trying to work, and you are very loud.”

Sam was blindsided by the grief that rocked through him, reminded all at once of Ratchet’s fond exasperation as he spoke the same words. His breath shuddered out of him as he squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to get ahold of himself, but it was too soon and he was too raw. Sam didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt the wetness on his cheeks, and he scrubbed a hand over his face in mortification. He wouldn’t let Megatron see him like this, he couldn’t let the warlord know where it hurt to push—

All at once, Megatron’s presence was in his mind. Sam recoiled away, to no avail, and Megatron brushed against him. The Decepticon’s presence was gruffly sympathetic and his touch was comforting for the first time in Sam’s captivity.

“Do all humans feel so intensely?”

Sam refused to answer, staring steadfastly at the berth in front of him. He felt rather than heard Megatron’s thoughtful rumble, and then the warlord pressed into his mind once again. Sam flinched away instinctively but sudden exhaustion flooded through him with all the force of a storm surge. He tried to pull away, to push at Megatron’s mental presence, but it was barely the space of moments before he was swallowed by the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness.

* * *

Sam woke briefly, an interminable time later, to find that the room was dark and quiet. Fear surged through him in an instant, and he called out without thinking.

“Megatron?”

The berth shifted and then Megatron’s red optics flared to life a short distance away. The weak light was enough for Sam to see that the warlord had taken his place barely a meter away from him. Sam’s heartbeat calmed, slowly but surely, as he realized that he was not alone in the dark. Megatron lifted a servo, stroking a digit down Sam’s back. The gentle touch caused the tension that had gathered in his shoulders to relax.

“I’m here, little one.”

Sam nodded faintly, settling down and pillowing his hands under his face. Megatron regarded him for a long moment before he lay back against the berth, his optics closing in recharge.

This time, Sam did not cry out in the darkness.

* * *

Sam’s days fell into a familiar routine. In the mornings, he ate and bathed as Megatron worked at his desk. Sometimes they spoke, but often they did not, orbiting one another in a sort of companionable silence. Megatron would leave shortly thereafter, attending to his duties on the bridge. The first few times that Sam had been left alone had been torture—a painful reminder of the isolation that he had endured. Now, however, Megatron’s presence remained comfortingly close, settling the worst of Sam’s anxiety.

Regardless of the closeness of his mental presence or duration of his absence, it was always a relief when Megatron returned.

In the evenings, Sam would fall asleep on the large berth before Megatron finished working. Sometimes he woke up to find the warlord in recharge beside him, other times Megatron was still sitting at his desk. One evening, after many days of this routine, Sam complained about his boredom. Megatron turned to look at him considerately before handing him a small datapad. At Sam’s incredulous stare, Megatron’s mouthplates quirked in a half-smile.

“What did I tell you about informing me of your needs?”

Sam spluttered indignantly, “I’ve been going out of my mind so that you could prove a _point_?”

Megatron lifted a pauldron in a half-shrug, “I am proving nothing. I set expectations that you chose not to follow, and your boredom was the result. It was a fitting punishment.”

Sam scoffed softly before glancing down at the datapad in his hands. After a long moment, he asked, “What is it?”

Megatron turned around, resuming his work.

“Classified intelligence.” He rumbled dryly.

Sam threw him a sarcastic look, “What is it really?”

“History text files, mostly. There is some poetry stored in there as well.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord, “Poetry?”

Megatron made an exasperated noise, a sound with which Sam was becoming increasingly familiar, “Yes, poetry.”

Sam stared at him incredulously for the space of a heartbeat before his mouth got the better of him, “What, do you think you’re Sun Tzu or something?”

Megatron cuffed him sharply across their bond and Sam grunted in response. The Decepticon leader’s admonishments were nothing like Ratchet’s metal _taps_ —they stung like hell and made his ears ring. Sam raised a hand to rub at his forehead, falling into a sullen silence. After a long moment, Sam thumbed on the datapad and saw, to his surprise, that the text files were written in Cybertronian.

He hesitated for a moment before brushing against Megatron’s mental presence.

“I can’t read Cybertronian.”

The warlord did not look away from his work as he replied, “It is time that you learned. There’s a rudimentary lexicon provided. You will have to puzzle out the rest.”

Sam frowned faintly, staring down at the tablet in front of him. He knew that Cybertronian was a complicated language, with glyphs that had multiple meanings depending on their context. Glyphs also changed meaning depending on what came before and after them, and some glyphs had no set definition at all.

He glanced towards Megatron uncertainly, surprised to see that the warlord had turned to regard him expectantly.

“You had the Allspark in your mind. Surely you retained some of its knowledge?”

Sam’s frown deepened at the reminder, “A little. It’s sporadic.”

To his surprise, Megatron nodded minutely, his expression openly thoughtful, “A little is better than nothing, which is what I had when I learned.”

“When you learned?” Sam asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

Megatron chuckled lowly, “I was sparked as a gladiator-class mechanoid. My Creators did not deign to provide me with written language protocols. There was no need, after all. My function was to fight and to die.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise, “That’s… horrible.”

“The caste-system of Cybertron was indeed horrible.” Megatron agreed, his voice dark, “Which is why I rallied the Decepticons and rebelled against it.”

Sam’s frown returned. He knew that Megatron had been a gladiator who had won his freedom, and he knew that Megatron started the civil war that tore Cybertron apart. He did not know, however, that a rebellion against the caste-system had been the cause for it all.

Megatron growled lowly, a sound thick with malice, “Of course Prime would not share that information with you. It is counterproductive to his narrative.”

Sam bristled in response, offended on Optimus’ behalf.

“He didn’t tell me about it because I never asked. I avoided talking about you whenever possible.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed dangerously, “Then allow me to educate you. The caste-system on Cybertron was a barbaric relic of a defunct Golden Age. The wealthy upper class systematically oppressed and enslaved those unfortunate enough to be sparked into lower castes. When energon fell into short supply, the lowest castes were the first to be sacrificed for the Senate’s glorious cause.”

Sam shivered, unsettled to his core at the warlord’s midnight black tone. After a moment he asked, tentatively, “What do you mean, sacrificed?”

Megatron had turned to face him fully now, something like long-suffering resentment in his expression, “When energon rationing began, do you think that the Senate went hungry? Do you think that the royal houses went hungry? Of course not. They diverted energon from the slums and the projects, leaving the poorest of their citizens to starve or to sell themselves into slavery.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He had read enough about Cybertron’s history during the end of the Golden Age to see the truth in Megatron’s words.

“I know about the energon shortages and the rationing,” Sam said, eventually, “But not that.”

Megatron rumbled in consideration, “Gladiatorial combat was one type of enslavement, but there were others. When I won my freedom, I was a vocal opponent of social stratification. As I mentioned previously, it was how I met Orion Pax.”

Sam stared at the Decepticon leader, uncertain and suspicious, but unable to quell his curiosity, “How did you meet him?”

“It was during the civil unrest caused by the energon rationing. There was a rally in Iacon, which we both attended. He introduced himself; he recognized me from my time in the arena.”

Sam frowned again, skepticism lodging itself in his chest. He could not believe that Optimus would voluntarily attend an exhibition match wherein people fought to the death for the entertainment of the masses. 

Megatron chuckled, but the sound was devoid of humor.

“Of course he did, both as Orion Pax and as Optimus Prime. Orion Pax was a data clerk who did as Alpha Trion bid him, and Optimus Prime was duty-bound to attend.”

Sam leaned back against the wall, suspicion and confusion twisting up inside him. He wanted to argue, but he didn’t dare. Megatron looked at him, inclining his helm slightly as he made a permissive gesture.

“By all means, say your piece.”

Sam’s frown returned, deepening in consternation, “There is no way that Optimus approved of gladiatorial combat. He believes that freedom is the right of all sentient beings.”

Megatron tilted his head, something like amusement in his optics, “Is that how you ended up on Diego Garcia? As a free being?”

He flinched, the warlord’s words hitting too close to home. Rather than concede the point, Sam snapped, “I ended up on Diego Garcia because you killed me, and Optimus knew you wouldn’t rest until you finished the job.”

Megatron waved his words away, “That is beside the point. If Optimus truly believed in the freedom of all sentient beings, then he would have given you the choice to stay or to go. We both know that he did not.”

Sam flushed in anger, both at Megatron’s words and at his inability to refute them. Megatron’s optics sharpened knowingly and he inclined his helm, turning back towards the desk. Sam sat there for a long while, stewing over Megatron’s words, before glancing down at the datapad in his lap. After a moment, Sam thumbed it on and started flipping through the text files, trying to find the lexicon.

 _Megatron is the great deceiver,_ He thought fiercely to himself, _It’s half-truths and obfuscation._

He tried not to dwell on the uncertainty that had lodged itself in his chest.

* * *

When Sam woke up an interminable time later, he groaned disapprovingly. The room was uncomfortably cold and he was alone on the berth. He rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up, as he cast his mind inwards. The bond-space was still and quiet for the first time since the hangar. Sam’s eyes blinked open and he struggled into a sitting position as his heart lodged itself in his throat. He had a brief moment of panic—Megatron was not separated from him by a mental block, he was completely absent—before he heard a familiar rumble. The sound snapped him out of his anxiety-spiral, and he pushed himself to his feet. 

There, sitting on her haunches beneath Megatron’s desk, was Ravage. Sam could not prevent the smile that stretched his face at the sight of her. He crouched down at the edge of the berth, his arms resting loosely on his knees.

“Good morning.”

Ravage pushed up onto all four paws, pacing forward to stand a short distance away. As Sam watched, she gathered her back legs underneath her, all coiled energy and grace, and then leapt onto the berth beside him. She stepped forward, butting her head roughly against his chest, causing Sam to fall back and land on his ass. He laughed lightly, stroking his hands over her face and neck.

“Hello to you, too.”

Ravage rumbled at him in welcome, a low sound deep in her chassis that made Sam smile in response. She sat on her haunches beside him, her tail tucked over her large, metal paws.

“What are you doing here?” He asked curiously. Sam knew that Megatron had been keeping him isolated, with only the warlord for companionship. Megatron’s sudden absence and Ravage’s appearance were surely related to one another.

Ravage tilted her head, regarding him seriously.

“Our Masters have been called away. I was tasked with keeping watch over you.”

Sam grimaced deeply but he did not correct her—it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Called away?” He asked instead, apprehension twisting in his stomach, “Where?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Sam frowned, anger flaring at her words, “That’s bullshit. Are they attacking the Autobots?”

Ravage’s expression was unusually strict, “If you want to know about the deployment, then you will have to ask your Master when he returns.”

Sam shoved at her, moving away and pushing himself to his feet. He paced several steps, his heart hammering in his chest, before turning around to glare at her.

“I swear to God, Ravage. If they’re attacking the base, you had better tell me.”

Ravage’s expression narrowed, her audial receptors flicking in disapproval.

“Your Master thought that you would enjoy my company. If you wish to be belligerent, then I will leave.”

Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat, both at her words and at the unspoken implication. Anything other than a flat-out denial of Sam’s question was certainly an affirmative. His breathing started to come faster, shallow pants that left him feeling lightheaded. If anything happened to Bumblebee or to Ratchet—Christ, if anything happened to any one of them—he didn’t know what he would do.

That wasn’t true, he realized abruptly. He knew exactly what he would do if Bumblebee died.

Sam was interrupted from his morose thoughts by Ravage’s head rubbing across his chest. He startled in response—he hadn’t realized that she had approached.

“Breathe, little Prime. You are becoming distressed.”

Sam barked a harsh laugh, sucking in a great, gasping breath. He had been distressed for weeks—this was panic. The room wavered precariously and Sam lowered into a sitting position. His heart was beating against his ribs so hard that it physically hurt, and no matter how he gasped, it felt like his lungs were starving for air. He put his head between his knees, forcibly reminding himself of Karen’s soothing words the last time that she had talked him through a panic attack. It had been December, just before everything had gone to shit. They had been talking about Christmas and his parents, and he had been a hyperventilating mess. She had tucked his head between his knees, her hand firm and grounding on the back of his neck.

_“Take a deep breath. Good, Sam. Now another.”_

Sam shuddered in a long breath through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth.

_“Good, you’re doing so well. Now open your eyes. I want you tell me five things that you can see.”_

After a long moment, Sam struggled to slant his eyes open. He glanced around the room, his pulse thundering in his ears.

“Desk. Chair. Datapad. Door. Keypad.”

Ravage tilted her head, watching him with the quiet intentness of a predator.

_“That’s good, Sam. Now pay attention to your body. Tell me four things that you can feel.”_

Sam sucked in another harsh breath, releasing it slowly through his mouth.

“I feel my heartbeat. I feel the berth beneath me. I feel my shoes. I feel the itch in my beard.”

As he spoke, Sam scrubbed a hand over the uneven scruff that covered the lower half of his face. The hair was short and wiry, longer than he had ever grown it before.

_“You’re doing so well. Now tell me three things that you can hear.”_

Sam closed his eyes, listening for a long moment.

“I hear my breathing. I hear the ship’s engines. I hear Ravage.”

_“Now tell me two things that you can smell.”_

“I smell myself. I smell recycled air.”

_“Almost done now, Sam. Tell me one thing that you can taste. If you can’t taste anything, you can name a favorite thing to taste.”_

“Coffee.”

Sam stayed there for a long time, his eyes closed, as he breathed in through his nose and out of his mouth. Eventually, his heartbeat settled into something approaching a normal rhythm. When he felt like he could face reality again, he opened his eyes and turned his head to regard the symbiont beside him.

“Can we get out of here?”

Ravage’s body was tense and coiled, her expression shuttered but laser-focused. Sam understood then that he had unsettled her greatly with his outburst.

“I was not ordered to keep you in this room.” She said at last, although her words were reluctant.

“Can we walk? Please?”

It was a torturous moment before Ravage nodded in acquiescence. The minute gesture caused the tension building in Sam’s shoulders to release, and he sighed softly in relief. It was a careful undertaking getting off the berth, which was the better part of ten feet high, but he managed it. Ravage landed gracefully beside him, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the room. Together they walked towards the door, which opened of its own accord, before making their way into the corridor. Sam paused once he stepped into the passageway, suddenly aware that this was the first time that he had been outside of his cell or Megatron’s quarters without the warlord’s direct supervision. His heart started to beat faster in his chest.

“Are you going to give me any trouble, little Prime?” Ravage asked, and although her voice was mild, she was watching him intently.

Sam knew that he didn’t stand a chance against the cyber cat, who had stalked him and taken him down once before. The memory of that night, his face pressed into the sandy loam of the forest floor with Ravage’s teeth around his neck, was not something that he was keen to repeat.

He forced himself to look at her, “No, I’ll behave.”

Ravage rumbled quietly as she padded down the corridor, but judging by her unwavering focus, she did not fully believe his reassurances. Sam walked beside her, all tightly coiled anxious energy. Right now, somewhere, Megatron and Soundwave were either preparing to attack, or were already attacking, his friends. The knowledge made him sick to his stomach, and he was briefly thankful that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning. Sam didn’t know how he was going to react when Megatron returned. It was one thing to remain meek and obedient in the warlord’s presence when it was the two of them—when it was just Sam’s pride and personal integrity that were being compromised—but it was another thing entirely to do so when the Decepticon was actively attacking his Autobots.

His one consolation was the Optimus had assured Sam that he would no longer send Bumblebee to the front lines, but that was a bitter comfort. If not Bumblebee, then Megatron would be squaring off against one of the others that he loved—Hot Rod or Cliffjumper or Sunstreaker. If the battle was more than a hit-and-run, then Optimus and Ratchet would certainly join the fray.

Sam swallowed hard, pushing his hands into his pockets. He barely paid attention to their route, allowing himself to be pulled along in Ravage’s wake. To his surprise, the symbiont took him to parts of the ship that he had never seen before—the mess hall (an actual mess hall, with trestle tables and everything), the labs (empty, but strongly reminiscent of Wheeljack’s lab), and the flight deck (an expansive, open-air hangar for the Seekers to use for take-off and landing). The air of the flight deck was ice cold and thin, cutting through his clothing like a blade. They stayed only long enough for Sam to get a view of the massive mountain chain beneath them, sinuous and grand, before they returned to the interior of the ship.

It was a long while before he realized that he and Ravage had not spoken a word to one another. The symbiont seemed content to walk in silence, leaving him to his thoughts. It was a fact for which Sam was quietly thankful.

All of a sudden, the neural-net flared brightly in his mind as three spark signatures materialized out of the darkness. Sam immediately recognized them as Thundercracker, Knock Out, and Blitzwing, and he instinctively drew the egress filter more tightly over his mind. In front of him, Ravage stiffened before turning to regard him.

“We must return to Megatron’s quarters at once, little Prime.” 

Sam glanced down at her in surprise, taken aback by the seriousness of her tone. The tension in her body and the strain in her voice made dread twist in his gut like a knife.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Ravage’s ruby optic narrowed dangerously, “ _Now._ ”

Without waiting for Sam’s reply, the cyber cat herded him down the corridor. In Sam’s mind, the spark signatures drew closer, gaining much faster than they were retreating. Eventually, he could hear urgent talking echoing down the hall.

“Keep pressure on it.” Thundercracker urged sharply.

“I know.” Knock Out snapped back, “I’m the fragging medic.”

Sam stopped in his tracks, turning his head around to look in the direction of the voices. Ravage’s tail lashed in agitation as she growled impatiently. The sound caused Sam to look down and he was completely taken aback by the hostility in her lithe frame. He took a step away from her instinctively, but then movement at the end of the hall caught his attention. There, supported between Knock Out and Thundercracker, was Blitzwing. The triple-changer was badly damaged, with deep gouges across his chest plate and energon leaking down his frame in glowing rivulets. Knock Out glanced up, exasperation on his faceplates.

“You were supposed to get him out of here.”

Ravage growled again in response, positioning herself between Sam and the three Decepticons.

“There was not enough time.” She replied.

Knock Out rolled his optics expressively as they passed, “Tell that to the boss. He’s on his way.”

Sam felt the dread in his gut sharpen in an instant. Before he could react, however, his eyes settled on Blitzwing’s chassis and he went cold all over. There, amongst the gouges and the sparking circuitry, was a long scrape of yellow paint. Sam’s world narrowed to that one spot, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears. It could have been Sunstreaker’s—it _could_ have been—but Sam knew with a certainty that he could not explain that it was Bumblebee’s.

“What did you do?” Sam hissed, tensing from head to toe, “You _fucker_ , what did you do to him?”

Blitzwing looked down at him, his expression shuffling rapidly—confusion, feral glee, mania—before it settled into something like comprehension.

“Just a little fun—“

White-hot rage exploded in Sam’s chest at the triple-changer’s cavalier tone. In an instant, he had cast aside the egress filter and launched himself at the Decepticon’s mental presence. He felt Blitzwing’s flare of shock as he collided against his mind, the triple-changer scrabbling to erect a stronger firewall, but Sam was faster. His mental presence deftly slipped beneath Blitzwing’s defenses, and then he attacked—tearing indiscriminately at the shifting yellow-gray spark signature in front of him.

Sam was distantly aware of the sound of shouting—voices raised in pain and disbelief and urgency—but he paid them no mind. Sam focused, lashing out with all of his mental strength. The answering shriek of pain was enormously satisfying, and he fucking _reveled_ in it. Suddenly, Sam was slammed into the floor and pinned in place by a large servo.

“Sam, stop it!” Thundercracker commanded sharply.

Sam ignored the Seeker completely. He pushed his mental fingers as deep into Blitzwing’s spark signature as he could manage, _twisting_ in a too-familiar way. The triple-changer’s shrieks rose in pitch and volume.

“Do something!” Knock Out snarled.

“I’m trying—!“

“ _Enough_!”

Sam was wrenched violently out of Blitzwing’s mind and back into his own so quickly that it left him reeling. Slowly, he became aware of the scene around him. Thundercracker knelt over his body, pinning Sam against the floor with more force than necessary. Blitzwing sagged heavily against Knock Out, who struggled to keep the larger Decepticon on his feet. The triple-changer’s faceplates were drawn tight, his optics dim and pained.

Beside them stood Megatron, his servos curled into tight fists and a thunderous expression on his face. The Decepticon leader regarded Ravage for a long moment before he turned towards Blitzwing. He hooked an arm around the triple-changer’s chassis, helping Knock Out to pull him to his feet.

Without looking at Sam, Megatron growled, “Take him to the hangar, I will deal with this later.”

Thundercracker rumbled lowly in acknowledgement, holding Sam in place until Megatron and Knock Out helped Blitzwing struggle down the corridor and out of sight. Once they were gone, the Seeker inclined his helm to look down at him, his expression a strange combination of anger and pity. 

“What have you done?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's note:** Thank-you so much for your support. This chapter was so difficult that I was really feeling discouraged. You're all the reason that I am still writing!
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mental torture, non-consensual orgasm, isolation.

Sam did not protest as Thundercracker picked him up. The Seeker pressed him against his chassis with a restraining servo as he turned and strode purposefully down the corridor. As they walked, Sam focused his attention inwards, only to realize that he had been corralled back within the confines of the Creator bond. The bond-space was dark and quiet, without a trace of Megatron’s presence. A deep grimace pulled at his mouth, as apprehension settled heavily into the pit of his stomach. Megatron had been furious, the kind of controlled anger that simmered rather than burned itself out. Sam knew with certainty that time would not abate the fire of the warlord’s wrath in the least.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only the space of ten minutes, Thundercracker walked into the large, empty hangar that had been the focal point of Sam’s nightmares for weeks. As the doors hissed shut behind them, Sam’s stomach cramped with anxiety. Thundercracker walked forward until he reached the deep groove lined in the floor and then he crouched, setting him down without a word. As Sam stepped back, the transparent energy barrier flickered into existence between them, and he flinched in response.

To his surprise, Thundercracker did not move from his crouched position. The blue and silver Seeker regarded him for a long while, arms resting on his knee struts, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Eventually, he ex-vented quietly.

“It will be a severe punishment, Sam, but you will survive it.” Thundercracker said, sympathy in his voice as he urged, “Plead for mercy and he may be lenient.”

Sam laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.

“No, he won’t.”

Thundercracker’s expression became inscrutable, but not before Sam saw the note of reluctant agreement in his optics. Sam shivered, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. The Seeker hesitated, as though wrestling with himself, before he spoke again.

“Megatron is a strict and demanding commander, but he is not without reason. He will not allow permanent harm to come to you.”

Sam smiled faintly, “That’s not as comforting as you might think.”

“Hang in there, Sam.” Thundercracker said. The Seeker stared down at him a moment longer before turning to leave. Without thinking, Sam stepped towards the energy barrier and called out after him.

“Wait.” Sam said, a sharp note of desperation in his voice, “Did you see him? Did you see Bumblebee?”

Thundercracker paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, “I did. Your bonded fought well.”

His words caused indefinable emotion to lodge itself in Sam’s chest. He swallowed hard, before managing to ask, “Did he say anything?”

“No.” Thundercracker replied, a note of dry humor in his voice, “His canons did all of the speaking for him.”

The blue and silver Seeker turned and walked away without another word. Sam watched him go, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders curled forward. After the hangar doors slid shut behind him, Sam slowly made his way over to the familiar spot against the bulkhead, settling down on the floor.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

* * *

Sam was not sure how long he sat there, shivering against the wall with his stomach twisting itself in knots. Despite the warmer clothing that he wore, Sam was numb wherever he pressed against the floor—his body heat long since leached away by the cold metal. Although he felt leaden with exhaustion, sleep remained elusive, kept at bay by his aching body and tumultuous emotions. He struggled not to dwell on his inevitable confrontation with the Decepticon leader, well aware that he could sense his emotions.

By the time that Megatron finally stepped into the hangar, Sam’s fear had been replaced by grim resignation. He watched, quiet and still from his spot against the wall, as the warlord deactivated the energy barrier. Although his earlier rage was no longer obvious, Megatron’s countenance was dark and foreboding. He stared down at Sam for a long while, narrowed optics burning in the dim light of the hangar.

“You would have killed him.” Megatron said at last. It was a statement, not a question, but Sam replied regardless.

“Yes.”

“I would not have thought you capable, boy.” Megatron rumbled lowly, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up, “To attack an unarmed, injured mechanoid without provocation.”

Sam shivered from head to toe. Megatron had not referred to him as ‘boy’ since he had flayed Sam’s mind open for Soundwave when he had first arrived on the _Nemesis._ The warlord had used the same moniker at the warehouse in New Jersey and on the rooftop in Mission City, both times that he had tried to kill him. When Sam did not reply, Megatron crouched in front of him, his helm tilting in derisive contemplation.

“Tell me, what would Optimus Prime think of that?”

Sam could not hide his flinch at the warlord’s taunt. His eyes dropped down to his hands, which twisted in his lap. The skin of his fingers was raw from his obsessive worrying of the flesh against the fabric of his pants. A heartbeat passed before Megatron slammed his clenched servo against the floor directly beside Sam’s legs. Sam jumped in surprise, his heart lodging itself in his throat.

“I asked you a question.” Megatron growled.

Sam’s eyes flicked up to the warlord’s face, which was uncomfortably close to his own. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, before he could answer.

“He would be disappointed.”

“Indeed. I doubt that Prime, paragon of virtue that he is, would approve of cold blooded murder.” Megaton’s silky voice hardened as he continued, “It is the nature of Decepticons—not Autobots—to employ such tactics.”

Sam swallowed against the sourness that suddenly flooded his mouth, well aware of what the warlord was implying. He wanted to swear at him, to deny the insinuation with every bit of vitriol in his body, but he didn’t dare. His eyes fell back to his hands lying clenched in his lap. He noted with a distant curiosity that the skin of his knuckles was chapped and bleeding.

“I had thought, perhaps idealistically, that you understood the nature of your bondage after our last conversation. I can see now that I was mistaken. You clearly require more than words to fully appreciate your new station.”

Sam’s eyes snapped up to Megatron’s face, panic flooding through him in an instant. The warlord’s tone was contemplative, almost kind, and it set off warning bells in Sam’s mind. He shifted forward, as though to scramble to his feet, but the warlord slammed him back against the wall with a large servo. Sam cried out in surprise and pain as thick digits curled around his body, pinning him in place.

“I will make this very simple for you.” Megatron said, “If you acted as an Autobot sympathizer, then you will be punished accordingly. If, however, you acknowledge my sovereignty over you, then I shall be merciful. After all, you are only a newspark.”

Sam stared up at the warlord, fear and denial warring for control over his mental faculties. He could not acknowledge Megatron’s lordship over him—or rather, could not do so and mean it—but he quailed at the prospect of the torture that would result from his failure to do so. He hesitated, unsure what to say, when Megatron’s expression turned calculating.

“Perhaps you require a demonstration.” The warlord said, and Sam could hear the restrained anger in his tone. He leaned forward until the warm air from his intakes ghosted over Sam’s face, “Which is it, boy? Are you an Autobot sympathizer?” 

Sam screamed, a choked, strangled sound, as liquid agony poured through his synapses—

“Or do you acknowledge me as your lord and Master?”

The pain was gone as abruptly as it had appeared, replaced by a buoyant lightness. The sensation filled his mind, pleasant and soothing, and Sam gasped desperately in response. The rapid change from agony to bliss left him disoriented and lightheaded, and he blinked up at Megatron as he tried to organize his thoughts. Before he could speak, however, Megatron’s presence filled his mind again, turning sharp. Sam cried out in surprise, struggling against Megatron’s servo as the pain worsened.

“I must admit to some degree of pride in you.” Megatron murmured, as though to himself, “You are a fast learner.”

As he spoke, Megatron sunk his mental fingers deep into Sam’s mind—just as Sam had done to Blitzwing earlier that day. Sam braced himself, hands flat against the cold floor, but the pain that exploded through him was unlike anything that he had experienced before. It ate away at him, corrosive as acid, sinking into the deepest recesses of his mind. Sam shrieked, bucking against the servo that held him in place. He could feel his ribs protesting against the strain, could feel the bruises blooming across his hips and shoulders, but it was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to the fire that subsumed his mind.

Sam knew that he was begging, pleading with the warlord for mercy, but Megatron gave no quarter. His mental fingers pressed deeper still, twisting until Sam was sure that he would die from the pain—until he was sure that he wanted to die, rather than endure another moment. He did not know for how long he suffered, writhing and fighting against the servo that held him down, but eventually he broke.

Somehow, through the agony that filled his mind, he managed to gather himself enough to beg, “Mercy, _please_ , Master!”

All at once, the pain melted away, replaced with the familiar lightness and warmth of before. He came back to himself slowly, only to realize that Megatron had withdrawn his servo. Sam lay against the cold floor of the hangar, shaking violently and soaked in sweat. He curled in on himself, distantly aware of the way his shoulders shook with the force of his crying. Megatron hushed him, a sound that made Sam’s skin crawl, as the warlord stroked down his back with the tips of his tensors.

“Be still, little one. You’ve done well.” Megatron rumbled, and then his voice turned considerate, “And good behavior should be rewarded.”

Sam did not have the time to ponder the implications of his words before the warmth in his mind deepened abruptly. He gasped, going rigid as pleasure rushed through him in an instant. It lit up his nerve endings, suffusing his body with a familiar heat that pooled low in his belly.

“Wh—what… stop it.” Sam gasped, pushing onto his knees and elbows. Megatron _shifted_ and Sam could not prevent the whimper that choked from his throat as arousal washed over him again. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning back against his heels as his head fell between his arms.

“You do not give the orders on this ship.” Megatron reminded him mildly, and then Sam was rocked with another wave of stimulation. The sensation was far more intense than before, causing the muscles of his lower abdomen to tighten pleasurably in response.

“Please don’t.” He pleaded, desperately, as his hands clutched against the floor. Burning need suffused through him, body and mind, making it difficult to think. He struggled to maintain his sense of self, his _revulsion_ at what was happening to him, in the wake of the sensation that flooded through his body. Sam choked on a moan, his hips twitching forward involuntarily, as that pleasure focused on his most sensitive anatomy.

He couldn’t speak to beg—wasn’t sure what it was that he would beg for, even if he could—so he shuddered through the sensations, enduring them in silence except for his occasional gasps and whimpers. After a moment, Megatron’s presence brightened across their bond, and then the stimulation intensified—

Sam cried out sharply as he came, colliding against the floor as his arms gave out beneath him. He panted wildly, struggling to get air into his starving lungs as he shook with the force of his orgasm. It was a long time before Sam’s higher cognitive function came back to him, and when it did, he became aware of Megatron’s intense scrutiny through their bond. After an agonizing moment, Sam slanted his eyes open, looking up at the Decepticon leader. Megatron’s expression was openly intrigued, something like curious contemplation visible in his optics. Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the sight, shame and powerlessness combining to make his stomach lurch threateningly.

Megatron brushed gently across his mind, an unusually comforting gesture from the warlord.

“There is no shame in accepting what your Master offers.” Megatron reassured him kindly.

Abruptly, all of the fight left Sam’s body. He fell back against the floor of the hangar, cringing at the feeling of the tacky, wet mess in his pants. He laid there quietly, focusing on his breathing, until his heartrate returned to something resembling normal. He purposefully kept his mind blank, refusing to contemplate the implications of this new form of punishment.

“That was not a punishment, little one.” Megatron admonished, “That was a reminder.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open as he turned to look up at the Decepticon leader.

“What?”

“I am your Master.” Megatron rumbled, and there was something hard in his tone, “Body and mind. Never again forget that you belong to me.”

Sam stared up at him in horrified silence, unable to articulate a response. He could feel Megatron’s dark satisfaction across their bond and, after a moment, the warlord leaned towards him.

“You are correct that there will be punishment. After all, you would have deprived me of my triple-changer. Even during peacetime, such treason would be punishable by death.”

Fear slammed through Sam with the force of a sledgehammer. He pushed up onto his elbows, making to sit up, before Megatron reached out to place a restraining servo against his back. The warlord continued talking, not waiting for Sam’s response.

“It is evident that you require time to reflect on both your transgressions and on your changed circumstances. Thus, time you shall have: one year for each of Blitzwing’s alt modes.”

“What?” Sam gasped, fear flashing into panic in an instant, “No, Megatron, _please_ —”

“Perhaps, after this time of reflection, you will think twice before raising a hand against me.”

Before Sam could formulate a reply, Megatron’s presence was inside his mind. The warlord pressed forward, batting away Sam’s desperate attempts at a firewall. There was a sudden uncomfortable _push-pull_ sensation, and then the hangar telescoped away as Sam was dragged down into stasis.

* * *

For a long while, Sam drifted.

His consciousness ebbed and flowed, but awareness remained elusive. He had no concept of self, no understanding of where he was or what had happened. Instead he floated, suspended, in the perfect darkness of stasis.

Eventually, something like recognition filtered through his mind. He knew this place. The quiet stillness of its depths and the _thrumming_ of its shallows, awash with faraway sounds and sensations _._ He shifted, uncertain and confused.

Where was the presence?

He cast his mind outwards, searching for the familiar warmth that had been his constant companion in the darkness, but he found nothing. No presence, no soothing pulses of comfort and calm. He shifted again, uncertainty and confusion coalescing into the first stirrings of fear. Gathering himself with great effort, he moved closer to the shallows—there was a vague sense of _rising up_ —but despite the occasional brush of sensation, there was nothing. No one.

He was entirely alone.

As his fear sharpened, he began to struggle within the dimensionless space. No matter how he twisted and shifted, he could not move beyond the confines of the darkness. Eventually, he exhausted himself into stillness. He stayed like that, drained and weak, until his awareness faded away again.

Thus began a hellish cycle. He would awake, confused and disoriented, until understanding returned. Fear and desperation came next, as he struggled to find purchase in the empty void within which he found himself. His awareness would persist, for shorter or for longer periods, depending on the extent of his panicked thrashing. Then his consciousness would fade away, slowly but surely, until his strength returned.

Suddenly, he felt a _shift_ in the darkness. He turned, frantic and hopeful in equal measures, but the familiar presence did not appear. Instead, the void lurched confusingly around him and then fell away.

* * *

Sam blinked awake, immediately wincing as bright light lanced across his corneas. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, raising an unsteady hand to scrub at his face. He felt exhausted, his whole body as weak and uncoordinated as it had been when he had first on-lined. After a long moment, he forced his watering eyes open and took in his surroundings. The room was large and well lit, with half a dozen empty berths arranged in even increments along opposite walls. Unfamiliar machinery was located irregularly around the space, alien-looking and intimidating. With mounting confusion, Sam craned his head to look down at himself. He was lying on the berth furthest from the large doors at the opposite end of the hangar. A swath of soft, silver-gray metalmesh had been drawn up his chest and tucked around his sides.

“Back with me, kid?”

Sam startled in surprise, turning his head to see Knock Out standing a short distance away. After a long moment, he realized that he must be in the _Nemesis’_ medical bay. He frowned, confused and disoriented. How had he gotten here?

Knock Out’s faceplates twisted in a grimace.

“What do you remember?” He asked, addressing Sam’s thoughts.

Sam’s frown deepened. He remembered panic and despair, but the memory was distant—dreamlike.

“Not a dream, stasis.” Knock Out corrected, staring down at him with clinical focus, “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” Sam rasped after a moment’s reflection.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been under for fifteen days.”

Sam stiffened with alarm, his heart quickening into double-time in an instant, “What?”

Knock Out’s expression softened minutely, edged with something like sympathy, “Do you remember what happened before stasis?”

He hesitated a long moment before he slowly shook his head. The last thing that Sam remembered was looking at the mountains with Ravage. Knock Out hummed quietly in response, his helm tilted in consideration.

“Memory lapses after stasis aren’t common among mechanoids, except as the result of injury. Has this happened to you before?”

“I was… confused, after I first on-lined.” Sam said slowly. He had only vague memories of waking up after Ripcord’s attack—brief glimpses of fear and disorientation, and through it all, Ratchet’s soothing presence.

“Maybe the effect will fade in time, maybe it won’t.” Knock Out said thoughtfully, “I doubt it will cause you any long-term harm.”

Sam glanced back at the medic, anxiety blooming sharply in his gut, “What happened, Knock Out?”

The medic hesitated before something like resolve settled across his features. 

“That doesn’t matter right now.” Knock Out said firmly, “You need to eat something. Although stasis reduces your need for rest and fuel, it does not eliminate it entirely.”

Sam did not have the chance to reply before Knock Out helped him into a sitting position. The effort left him feeling wrung out and exhausted, and he slumped forward to rest his arms against his legs. Knock Out took the opportunity to wrap another piece of metalmesh over his shoulders, and Sam used one hand to clasp the edges of the material together. It was only then that he realized that he wasn’t wearing any clothing.

Knock Out subspaced a familiar-looking brown package and bottle of water. He handed the rations to Sam, gesturing for him to eat. All at once, Sam realized that he was ravenous, his stomach panging painfully at the sight of the food. With trembling hands, he tore the top off the pre-packaged meal and started to eat with his fingers. Knock Out stood a short distance away, watching Sam closely with his arms folded loosely over his chassis. When he finished the meal, he uncapped the bottle of water and took a long drink.

“Can you eat any more?” Knock Out asked.

He glanced at the medic in surprise; he had never been given more than one MRE for any meal.

“I’m not hungry.” He replied at last.

Knock Out stared at him for a long time, something inscrutable in his optics. Eventually the medic came to stand beside his berth, reaching out to press a servo gently against Sam’s torso. Sam let himself be guided to lay back against the metal surface. He blinked up at Knock Out in surprise as the medic adjusted the metalmesh so that it covered his legs.

“I want you to close your eyes, Sam.”

“What? Why?”

Knock Out rested his servos on the berth beside Sam, his slender digits just pressing against his ribs.

“It will make it easier for you.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, confused by the strange request, when Knock Out brushed lightly across his mind. The touch was soft and sympathetic, gently urging him to comply. Sam shifted uncertainly but he eventually acquiesced. Knock Out’s mental presence took on an apologetic edge, and then he pressed into Sam’s mind. Before Sam could protest or pull away, the medic had him back within the void of stasis, secured beneath medical grade blocks.

* * *

The darkness within which he found himself remained unchanged—quiet and still. He drifted comfortably until his awareness built to the point that he realized that he was alone. Familiar fear clutched at him, chasing away the remnants of calm that had shrouded his mind. He twisted, calling out wordlessly in the darkness for the familiar presence.

Silence answered him.

Just as it had before, his consciousness ebbed and flowed in predictable cycles. After many iterations of consciousness and unconsciousness, fear and calm, he slowly achieved self-awareness. As Sam came to understand who and where he was, emotions crashed into him fast and sharp—terror, confusion, desperation, hopelessness.

It was only then that Sam learned the true meaning of panic.

* * *

Ratchet frowned as he came to stand beside Prime, taking in their inhospitable surroundings. It was raining heavily, although very little precipitation made it through the thick canopy of the Amazonian rainforest. The foliage of the upper reaches of the forest was dense, filtering much of the light from the ground. The undergrowth was thinner here, mostly tangled shrubs and bushes.

A flash of movement caused him to glance up, just in time to see the brilliant plumage of a scarlet macaw before it winged into the tree cover.

“God damned, pit-spawned mosquitos.” Master Sergeant Bobby Epps swore, slapping at the back of his neck. Ratchet glanced down at him, quirking a brow ridge in response. The soldier tossed him a grimace from where he stood next to Ironhide and Will Lennox.

“Be thankful you guys don’t have to deal with this shit.”

“You’re fully inoculated.” Ratchet reassured him, ignoring the twist of Epps’ mouth. He glanced around the small clearing, noting as Bumblebee and Cliffjumper took their positions at the rear of their formation.

 _//Be on your guard. These are the coordinates.//_ Prime commanded over the tacnet. A flurry of nonverbal acknowledgements _pinged_ across Ratchet’s visual display as the rest of the Autobots confirmed their positions.

Four days ago, an anonymous letter had arrived in the mail, addressed to Optimus Prime. That in and of itself had been unusual, but the letter had contained only a set of coordinates—latitude and longitude in degrees, minutes, and seconds—as well as a date and time. To compound the mystery, the letter had been signed with the Cybertronian glyph for Prime. Optimus had convened his senior staff to discuss the unusual message, which seemed to have three possible explanations: it was either another trap set by the Decepticons, an elaborate prank, or someone was trying to contact them discretely.

By that evening, Prime had given the orders to prepare for departure to Brazil. 

_//West-southwest is clear.//_ Sunstreaker reported.

 _//East-northeast is clear.//_ Sideswipe added, a moment later.

“Optimus Prime.”

The reaction among both Autobots and humans alike was instantaneous—safeties clicked off, canons charged, battle masks engaged. There, stepping out of the dense underbrush at the other side of the clearing, was a bulky purple mechanoid. The stranger approached their assembled group, his posture tense but non-threatening, coming to a stop a short distance away from their leader. Ratchet’s optics narrowed at the Decepticon insignia that was plainly soldered onto the mechanoid’s chassis.

Prime inclined his helm a fraction of an inch in greeting.

“What is your designation?” Optimus rumbled. As he spoke, Ironhide flanked the Decepticon on his left as Sunstreaker circled him on the right. The purple mechanoid glanced at the approaching soldiers, raising his servos in a universal sign of surrender.

“I am unarmed.” He said calmly, directing his words towards Ironhide and Sunkstreaker, before looking back to Prime, “My designation is Ambulon.”

Ironhide stepped up to the Decepticon, grabbing his servos and pinning them behind him, before kicking his legs out from under him. The mechanoid landed hard on his knees with a loud grunt. Prime directed a dignified and quelling look at Ironhide, who stepped back and trained his canon at their prisoner. Abruptly, Prowl’s calm voice washed over the tacnet. 

_//Decepticon, designation: Ambulon. Field medic and researcher. Weapons armament, minimal. Alt mode: leg.//_

_//Leg?//_ Sideswipe asked, equal parts disbelieving and aghast.

“Ambulon. What is the meaning of this subterfuge?”

The Decepticon looked up at Prime for a long time, as though trying to get the measure of him. Eventually, he spoke.

“I know where they’ve taken the boy. I can help you rescue him.”

Ratchet’s spark twisted in its casing, anger and hope waring for supremacy within his processors. The reaction among his compatriots was similar—surprise, disbelief, rage. It was a testament to Prime’s unflappable calm that he did not react beyond the slight narrowing of his optics.

“Why would you share this information with us?” Optimus asked.

Ambulon hesitated for a long moment before he hedged, “We have no wish to see him come to harm.”

Bumblebee stepped forward, rage all over his face, before Cliffjumper caught him with a restraining servo. Ambulon glanced towards him, something like recognition brightening his optics.

“I know you, scout.” The Decepticon murmured, sympathy in his voice, “Your bonded dreams of you often.”

Bumblebee’s optics widened in pained surprise before narrowing in anger. He made to approach the Decepticon again, but a pointed look from Optimus had him returning, reluctantly, to his position.

“What do you want in exchange for this information?” Ironhide asked suspiciously, “You’re sure as the Pit not giving it to us out of the goodness of your spark.”

Ambulon inclined his helm minutely, “Clemency. For myself and my bonded.”

“You turning paint, Decepticon?” Ironhide scoffed loudly, “Why should we trust you?”

“You don’t have any other choice, not if you want to see him again.”

The words were said so plainly and with such conviction that it made Ratchet’s spark clench once again.

“If the information that you provide leads to Sam’s return, then I will meet your conditions.” Optimus rumbled, “But we will need proof of your claims.”

Ambulon nodded, as though expecting this request. He tapped the side of his helm in warning and then Ratchet received a notification of a pending data transfer. He narrowed his optics as he reviewed the file’s parameters. It was small, too small to contain a virus, and it was flagged as a memory datum. After a quick scan, he _pinged_ the Autobot leader.

_//I can find no evidence that the file contains malware. It should be safe to open.//_

Optimus inclined his helm slightly in permission, and Ratchet accessed the file.

 _The memory filed opened on the bridge of an unfamiliar warship—the_ Nemesis _, Ratchet surmised. Then his spark lurched as the sight of Sam, curled up against a work terminal a short distance away from whoever was recording the file. The boy looked well enough, paler than usual and sporting a wound on his cheek, but otherwise much the same as he had looked before his capture._

_Except, of course, for the naked animosity on his face. Sam glared at something just outside of Ratchet’s field of vision, his body rigid with anger. Suddenly, his face twisted in discomfort and his eyes squeezed shut._

_As Ratchet watched, Megatron lumbered into view as he approached the boy._

_“If you feel the need to be reminded of your station, I am happy to do so.” The Decepticon leader growled, causing Ratchet’s fuel pump to quicken in anger, “But acting out will not end favorably for you.”_

_After a moment, Sam forced his eyes open, glaring up at the warlord._

_“Don’t touch me.”_

_Immediately, Sam cried out in pain, his hands flying to the sides of his head. Megatron crouched down in front of him, partially blocking Sam from Ratchet’s view._

_“You do not command me. I will not remind you again.”_

_The ichor of the warlord’s tone made Sam flinch in response, his eyes falling to the floor in front of him as his posture became unassuming and inoffensive._

_After a long moment, Megatron rumbled lowly, “Now thank me for my patience.”_

_Sam’s eyes flew open, blazing like a demon’s._

_“Never.” He spat, his entire body tensing with anger._

_As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam cried out again in pain, writhing against the floor as Megatron watched on. Eventually, Sam’s struggles quieted, the sound of his harsh breathing loud in the relative quiet of the bridge._

_“Thank me for my patience.” Megatron repeated, dangerously._

_Sam did not reply. His eyes fluttered shut, lying against the deck of the bridge, resigned. It was not long before Megatron’s optics narrowed in fury, and then Sam began screaming in earnest. He thrashed in agony, hands pressed against the sides of his head—_

Ratchet abruptly found himself back within the privacy of his own processors as the file ended. He reeled with what he had just seen. To abuse a _Creator bond_ to inflict suffering on a newspark was beyond perverse, beyond condemnation—it went against every line of his base programming.

Judging by the way that Prime had gone very still, his servos clenched into fists, he shared Ratchet’s sentiments.

“Where is he?” Optimus demanded, his tone uncharacteristically sharp.

“They are in Chile, above the Andes mountain range.” Ambulon said, before warning, “Do not think to assault the _Nemesis_ directly. She is fully functional and carries a substantial armament.”

“What would you suggest?” Prime asked at last, his voice calm and collected once again.

“My bonded is stationed on the ship. If you can provide me with the access codes to your ground bridge, then we can bring him to you.”

Ratchet glanced at Optimus just in time to see the note of sharp consideration brighten his optics. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** \- Thank-you all so much for your love and support last chapter. It legitimately choked me up. You guys are the best.
> 
>  **Warnings** \- Isolation, mental torture, suicidal thoughts

Sam jerked awake, gasping loudly in the stillness of the medical bay. Gentle servos pressed against him, restraining his body as he struggled instinctively against the berth.

“You’re alright, Sam. I’ve got you.” Knock Out said, soothingly.

It was a familiar refrain, that same one that had greeted him the last four times that he had awoken from stasis.

“How long?” Sam rasped.

Knock Out’s mouthplates downturned slightly, but he replied, “Twenty-two days.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, as the fight slowly drained out of him. Twenty-two days in stasis this time; it had felt a lot longer. Once he realized that Sam was no longer in danger of injuring himself, Knock Out withdrew his servo, placing it flat against the berth beside him.

“How do you feel?”

Sam didn’t turn to look at him, instead he stared unblinkingly at the ceiling of the hangar. It was the same question that he asked every time, even though Knock Out monitored him the whole while that he was in stasis. The medic knew exactly how he was feeling.

When Sam didn’t reply, Knock Out ex-vented softly before helping him struggle into a sitting position. Once again, the medic drew the soft metalmesh around his shoulders, keeping the worst of the chill away. Although the medical bay was appreciably warmer than the rest of the ship, the air was still uncomfortably cool against his bare skin.

“Can you eat?”

Sam shook his head faintly. His stomach felt cramped and heavy, as if he were too full even though it had been three weeks since he had last eaten. Knock Out stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You need to eat, Sam.” He admonished, “You’re already losing weight.”

Sam grimaced deeply, bitter resentment lodging itself in his throat. He wanted to make a smartass remark, to point out that Megatron could not be terribly concerned about his physical wellbeing if he was subjecting him to this in the first place, but he didn’t have the energy. It was a familiar argument, one that he always lost.

“If I eat right now, I’m going to throw-up.” Sam warned. Knock Out’s faceplates twisted in response, but he eventually nodded his assent. The medic had learned the hard way that Sam wasn’t bluffing when he said it.

“Alright, drink some water. You can eat when your stomach’s settled.” Knock Out replied, handing a bottle to him. Sam accepted the water, holding it in his lap for a long while. He sat there, shoulders curled forward and eyes half-lidded, as he waited for the queasy feeling in his stomach to abate. Eventually, he twisted off the cap and took a little drink. The water was cool and soothing against his throat.

Knock Out stood a short distance away, fiddling with a complicated-looking piece of machinery. Sam watched him, slowly sipping at his water, as the medic worked at disassembling it piece by piece. As though aware of the weight of Sam’s regard, Knock Out glanced towards him.

“It’s for repairing secondary pistons. Or rather, it would be, if it wasn’t a piece of scrap.” His words were punctuated with a loud clang as he tossed a circuit board into the garbage disposal beside him. Once the machine was mostly disassembled, Knock Out glanced back at him apologetically.

“You know that stalling won’t help. You need to eat before you go back under, Sam.”

Sam felt the familiar twist of anxiety in his gut. He couldn’t do this, not again.

Knock Out turned to face him, something like reluctant sympathy on his faceplates, “Don’t worry about that right now. Try to eat something, alright?”

After a long moment, Sam nodded faintly. Knock Out made an approving sound, sub-spacing a brown package before firing up his arm-mounted butane torch. The medic held the package near the flame, rotating it slowly, before wrapping it in a square of metalmesh and handing it to Sam. The second time that Sam had awoken from stasis, the gruel-like consistency of the cold MRE had almost made him vomit. Since then, Knock Out had taken to heating the meals before giving them to him.

Sam raised shaking fingers to tear the top off the package. He ate slowly, squeezing small bites of food into his mouth. The food was unevenly heated, but it settled comfortably in his stomach all the same, warming him from the inside out. He was half-way through the package when he thought to glance down at the label. It was beef stew, but he hadn’t tasted a thing. He made his way through most of the meal before he lost his appetite. Sam set the package down on the berth, before picking up the bottle of water and taking another drink. In the periphery of his vision, he watched as Knock Out approached, and he braced himself for what was to come.

“Lay down, Sam.”

“Knock Out, please… please don’t do this.”

Sam felt the medic’s mental presence brush against him, gentle fingers soothing over his mind.

“It’s me or him, Sam.” Knock Out said softly, as though Sam needed the reminder. The third time that Sam had woken from stasis, he had fought the medic with all of his strength. He had been rewarded for his efforts with Megatron’s mental presence slamming into his mind with the force of a sledgehammer. The warlord had lashed at him until Sam had submitted to Knock Out’s ministrations without further protest. It was not an experience that he was keen to repeat.

Sam bit his lip until he could taste the copper tang of blood, “Please, Knock Out. _Please_. I can’t do this.”

Knock Out’s mental presence took on an apologetic tone, edged with sympathy and regret.

“You can. Humans are annoyingly resilient, after all.”

Although his tone was light, Sam could hear the gravity in his voice. He felt his heart start to hammer against his ribs, his breaths coming low and fast as the inevitably of his situation began to sink in again.

“Knock Out…” He said, unable to look at the medic as he quietly begged, “Please, help me. I can’t do this for two years.”

Rather than reply, Knock Out reached out a servo to guide Sam back down against the berth.

“Do you want to close your eyes?”

He didn’t, but Sam squeezed them shut anyway.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Sam flinched as the medic’s presence pressed into his mind. He barely had the time to brace himself before it felt as though the berth had dropped out from beneath him, and then he was back in stasis.

* * *

“What’s wrong with him?”

The concerned words filtered through Sam’s brain in fits and starts, but they held no meaning for him.

“Nothing’s wrong with him.” Knock Out snapped, “This happens sometimes.”

Sam became aware of the discomfort in his body, bright points of pain blooming across his hips and shoulders. Was that important?

“Come on, Sam. Open your eyes for me.”

It took a moment for the words to make sense, but when they did, he reluctantly obeyed. The medical bay was much the same as he remembered it—but he was startled to realize that Knock Out was leaning over him, pinning him against the berth with both servos. It was only then that Sam realized that he was thrashing violently beneath the medic, heels drumming into the metal as he struggled. The realization made Sam go still, all at once. He lay back against the berth, panting loudly as his earlier panic began to fade away. Knock Out watched him closely for a long moment—experience had taught him not to immediately recede at the first sign of submission—before he slowly withdrew his servos.

“Good, Sam. You’re doing well.” Knock Out praised gently, “Back with me?”

Sam nodded faintly, closing his eyes again.

“How long?” He asked at last. It hurt to speak—he must have been screaming again.

He felt, rather than saw, the medic’s faint disapproval, “Eighteen days.”

“Hanging in there, little Prime?”

Sam startled in surprise, glancing in the direction of the new voice. Thundercracker stood a short distance away, his arms crossed over his chassis. Although his posture was loose and relaxed, Sam could see the concern in his optics. After a moment, Sam looked away, trying not to dwell on the moisture gathering on his lashes.

“You’re upsetting him.” Knock Out hissed angrily. Thundercracker didn’t move, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Sam’s prone form. After a moment, the Seeker reached out a servo to stroke lightly down Sam’s side. The touch was gentle, soothing.

“I brought you something. Can you sit up for us?”

Sam shuddered from head to toe, but he did not resist as Knock Out helped him into a sitting position. The medic made a sharp sound as Thundercracker reached for the metalmesh blanket, intercepting the Seeker to drape the material over Sam’s shoulders himself. His slender tensors lingered for a long moment, squeezing lightly before drawing away.

Thundercracker extended his servo towards him and Sam glanced down in surprise. There, nestled in the cage of the Seeker’s tensors, was a small, brightly colored package. It took him a long moment to realize that it was a bag of M&Ms—the sight of the confectionary was incongruous in the extreme. Sam glanced from the package to Thundercracker, confusion written all over his features.

Thundercracker’s mouthplates quirked faintly, “Soundwave’s symbionts can be resourceful.”

The Seeker’s words startled a quiet laugh out of him. Thundercracker gestured meaningfully with his servo, and Sam reached forward to retrieve the little package. He held it in his lap for a long while, staring down at it as he struggled to make sense of the complicated emotions welling up inside him.

“I used to eat these all the time when I was younger.” He murmured at last, thumb stroking over the colorful wrapper. After a long moment, Sam tore the top off the package, pouring candy directly into his mouth. The chocolate flavor exploded over his tongue, almost painfully sweet after months of eating only protein and refined carbs. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

The whole while, Thundercracker and Knock Out watched him in silence.

By the time that Sam had finished the treat, he felt marginally better—or, at least, not at imminent risk of crying.

“Thank-you.” He murmured, and he meant it.

“You’re welcome.” Thundercracker replied sincerely.

“Do you think that you could manage something more substantial?” Knock Out asked. Sam flinched at the words, unhappily reminded of their reason for waking him. He had been unable to stomach more than half of a pre-packaged meal the last two times that he’d come out of stasis, despite Knock Out’s gentle and persistent coaxing.

“I’ll try.” He said at last.

At once, Knock Out’s mental presence brushed across his mind approvingly. The medic went about the task of getting the MRE prepared, before handing it to Sam with a warning not to burn himself. He heaved a shuddering sigh before he set to the task of eating, wishing fervently to be anywhere else but there. He had barely finished a third of the package before he set it down abruptly.

“Sam, you need to eat more than that.”

“I’m done, Knock Out.” He replied tiredly, “Don’t fuss at me.”

Before Knock Out could wheedle him any further, Sam laid down against the berth, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. The medic’s gaze sharpened in concern—Sam never laid down without being prompted.

“Sam, what can we bring you?” Thundercracker asked softly, “What would help?”

“Nothing, thank-you Thundercracker.” Sam heard himself reply, his voice monotonous.

Thundercracker and Knock Out shared a meaningful look, but neither of them spoke a word. Eventually, Knock Out reached out to curl his servo around Sam’s shoulder.

“Are you ready?”

Sam nodded faintly, and then a moment later, he was gone again.

* * *

His first conscious thought upon waking was that it was unusually quiet in the medical bay. His second thought was the grim realization that it was quiet because he wasn’t screaming.

After a moment, Sam winced his eyes open, blinking in the soft light of the hangar. After the first time that he had woken up, Knock Out had reduced the light level to ease the strain on his eyes. When Sam glanced down at himself, his eyebrows rose in surprise. There, lying pressed against his side with her head resting in his lap, was Ravage. The symbiont stared up at him, rumbling a long, low purr when she realized that he was fully awake.

“Hey you.” Sam rasped softly. His voice was always rough now, ruined from months of silence interspersed with periods of frantic shrieking. 

Ravage shifted, leaning more fully against him. It was a pleasant feeling, heavy and warm. Grounding.

“Good morning, little Prime.”

Sam glanced around the medical bay, looking for Knock Out, but he was nowhere to be seen. Apprehension tightened in his chest immediately, his heartrate picking up as anxiety flooded through him in an instant.

“Be calm, your medic is on his way.”

Sam glanced down at her uncertainly, but her voice was reassuring and unconcerned. Eventually, he felt himself relax as he settled back down against the berth. It wasn’t until Knock Out walked into the hangar a moment later that Sam realized that he had not been offended by Ravage’s implication.

“It’s been ten days.” Knock Out said, by way of greeting, before extending the familiar rations towards him. Sam frowned in confusion—he had never been in stasis for less than two weeks at a time since the beginning of his punishment.

“Your blood sugar is too low.” Knock Out said, helping him into a sitting position, “You need to eat something.”

He grimaced deeply. The last time that Sam had woken up, he had cried himself sick. After that, eating anything had been out of the question. To his surprise, Knock Out subspaced an unfamiliar looking bottle, which he promptly placed in Sam’s lap after shooing Ravage away. The cybercat lifted her head, but otherwise did not move from his side. Sam reached forward to pick up the bottle, immediately recognizing the label. Megatron had given him the same electrolyte beverage when he had first been captured. Aware of the weakness of his body and the unsteady tremor in his hands, Sam opened the bottle without being told. It tasted salty and faintly sour, but he drank it anyway. When he had finished the bottle of fluids and his trembling had stopped, Knock Out handed him the pre-packed meal. Sam flinched away from him, unable to look up at the medic.

“You need to eat, Sam.”

“I can’t.”

“Please try.” Knock Out asked entreatingly. The earnestness and concern in his voice settled like a weight in Sam’s gut. Tears blurred his vision before spilling over to run down his cheeks. He made no move to hide the fact that he was crying—there was no point.

“Hey, you’re okay.” Knock Out murmured, stroking the tips of his tensors up and down Sam’s back. The touch was firm but gentle, comforting him as Sam cried quietly.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He choked after a long while, “I won’t.”

Knock Out crouched down so that they were of a similar height, never stopping the gentle touches up and down Sam’s back.

“Yes, you can.” He said firmly, his tone brooking no argument, “You’re almost there, just four months left to go.”

Sam laughed quietly, an ugly, broken sound. He would rather die than suffer another minute alone in the darkness of stasis.

“Think of your bonded, little one.” Ravage urged him suddenly, “Bumblebee would not want you to give up.”

He flinched as though she had physically struck him. All he did was think about Bumblebee. Sam was reasonably sure that the scout would understand, that he wouldn’t want Sam to suffer any more. He glanced morbidly over the side of the berth—it had to be twenty feet to the floor. Not enough to do the job.

Knock Out hissed a harsh in-take.

“Don’t think like that.” Knock Out said, aghast, “Sam, don’t ever.”

Distantly, Sam realized that Knock Out could not have been following his thoughts while he was in stasis. He had thought of little else over the last ten days.

“Sam.”

He glanced at the symbiont in surprise. It was the first time that she had ever called him by his name.

“If you die, your bonded dies.” She rumbled in her usual direct manner. Sam waited for the burst of pain that should have lodged itself in his chest at the thought, but there was nothing. He felt hallowed out and empty, like a vacant shell.

“Here, Sam.” Knock Out urged, cutting off the top of the pre-packaged meal before placing it in his hands, “Just try, alright? A few bites, that’s all.”

The medic nudged the package lightly before Sam finally raised it to his mouth. He ate slowly, staring at nothing in particular as he chewed and swallowed. Distantly, it occurred to him that he might have died that night in the forest and this was his own particular brand of hell. When the next bite made him wretch wetly, he put the package aside. After his stomach settled down, he laid back against the berth, pulling the blankets over him once again. Ravage curled her long body against him, the soft, low rumble of her purr vibrating through him. Sam let his eyes close, content to drift thoughtlessly beside her. Knock Out murmured at him encouragingly before pressing into his mind. He could feel the medic’s guilt and remorse right up until he tumbled back down into the depths of stasis.

That morning was the last time that Knock Out was able to coax Sam to speak or to eat for a long while.

* * *

Deadlock frowned minutely, staring at the tracking system in front of him. Three glyphs that denoted each member of the command trine blinked in the upper corner of the display. They were half-way through their patrol, currently cruising at Mach 2 near the border of Argentina. As he watched, a fourth glyph appeared at the bottom of the screen with identifying markers of the Lord High Protector. He watched as the fourth glyph made its way towards the command trine until his chronometer flashed a warning across his primary visual display.

It was time.

He pushed back from his workstation, crossing the bridge to stand in front of the third-in-command. He inclined his helm deeply in greeting.

“The reports have been submitted and Lord Megatron has begun his patrol.”

Soundwave turned slightly in his seat, his singular optic assessing him for a long moment.

“Deadlock: stands relieved.” He rumbled at last in his unusual monotone.

Deadlock inclined his helm again before turning and striding out of the bridge. He walked purposefully down the corridor, making his way through the depths of the ship. It had been tense for the last four days, ever since Soundwave had observed increased air traffic in and out of Diego Garcia. The thought made irritation lance through his processors, but he set his frustration aside—he had to keep his wits about him.

As he turned down the long corridor towards the research section, he sent a ping to Barricade.

_//I will be delayed. I must return to my quarters before joining you.//_

It was less than an astrosecond before he received a wordless acknowledgement in reply. The shock trooper had never been one for small talk, Deadlock mused to himself. He quickly checked his chronometer—ten kilks remaining—before making his way down the corridor. He stopped in front of a large set of doors, pressing the access code with a tensor.

His posture was loose and relaxed, his actions unhurried. 

The doors slid open in front of him, and he stepped through without hesitation. The medical bay was quiet, lights dimmed to their lowest setting. He glanced around the room cautiously, looking for any sign of Knock Out or Hook. Satisfied that he was alone, the commando slowly made his way across the hangar. He stopped in front of the berth on the far side of the room. The young Prime lay perfectly still, eyes closed and covered to his shoulders with metalmesh. He looked almost peaceful lying there, but Deadlock knew better than to be fooled by his appearance. The boy’s mental presence ached with mute agony, causing Deadlock to reinforce his firewalls as a precautionary measure. Having seen the aftermath of what had happened to Blitzwing, he was taking no chances.

When he was satisfied that his mental presence was sufficiently protected, he reached forward, hooking one servo under the boy’s knee struts and the other under his shoulders, before picking him up.

“What are you doing?”

Deadlock turned, taking in the sight of Knock Out standing in the doorway of the medical bay. The commando winced internally, cursing his lack of good fortune. The medic was supposed to be in the labs.

Knock Out’s optics narrowed dangerously, subspacing his energon shock probe with a flick of his wrist. The weapon sparked loudly in the sudden silence of the hangar.

“Put him down.”

Deadlock transferred the bulk of the boy’s weight into one arm, pressing his frail body against his chassis. In a single fluid motion, he pulled the large broadsword out of its scabbard on his back, activating it as he pointed the tip in the medic’s direction.

“I have no wish to kill you, Knock Out, but I will if you stand in my way.”

“Are you _glitched_? Megatron is going to peel you apart, panel by panel.”

Deadlock made his way slowly across the hangar, approaching the medic who stood planted in front of the entryway. Knock Out tracked his movements with surgical precision, stabilizing servos spread wide in a combat-ready stance.

“Megatron is not here.”

“What do you think you’re going to do? Jump off the flight deck? You’ll kill him.”

Deadlock came to a stop half a dozen meters away from the medic, the tip of his broadsword pointed at his spark casing, “I’m going to ground-bridge out. Now get out of my way.”

Something like consideration flickered through the medic’s optics. For a moment, Deadlock was sure that he was about to step aside, that he would let him pass without quarrel. Then, the medic’s brow ridges knit together with grim determination, and Deadlock tensed in preparation for a fight.

Knock Out stepped forward, extending his servos towards the fragile boy held tight against the commando’s chest. Deadlock brought his broadsword down to press against the medic’s chassis, hard enough to dent metal. If he pressed any harder, the sword would pierce through the plating to the sensitive circuitry underneath.

“Watch the paint job.” The medic scoffed, slapping the sword away with the back of his servo, “You’ll need both hands in case we run into resistance. Give him to me.”

Deadlock narrowed his optics, “Do you think me so foolish—”

“I think you’re exactly as dumb as your frame-type would suggest. I could have comm’d Soundwave the second I stepped through those doors.”

“Not if you wanted to live.”

“If I had an aversion to life-threatening peril, I wouldn’t be deserting with an imbecilic front-liner who brought swords to a gunfight.” Knock Out drawled, snapping his tensors impatiently, “It will probably be the last mistake of my tragically short life.”

Deadlock stared at the medic for the space of an astrosecond, hesitating. It was not until an alert popped up on his primary visual display warning him of the time that he allowed Knock Out to take the boy.

“I hope you have a good plan, or we’re scrap.” Knock Out muttered, cradling the Prime in his arms.

Rather than reply, Deadlock stepped around the medic and walked into the corridor. He glanced behind him long enough to ensure that the red mechanoid was following him, and then he made his way out of the research section before heading towards storage.

“Any information that you could provide would be most helpful.” Knock Out hissed, “I’m putting my aft on the line here.”

Deadlock glanced sidelong at the medic, taking in the tension of his lithe frame. He had no intention of providing him with any information that could potentially compromise the mission or endanger his bonded. After a moment, he grunted, “It’s been arranged. We need to get to the ground-bridge in the next four kliks.”

“Arranged? Arranged with—oh, _slag_.”

Both Deadlock and Knock Out came to an abrupt stop as they rounded the corner towards storage. There, standing in front of them with nearly identical expressions of surprise on their faces, were Detour and Growl.

“Deadlock, what are you—“ Detour began, before his optics fell on the bundle in Knock Out’s arms. It only took a moment for grim understanding to dawn on his face. Growl glanced from Knock Out, to his partner, and back again before his optics narrowed in vindictive pleasure.

“When Megatron melts you down, I am going to ask him for your Great Sword.” The Micromaster said with a chuckle, powering up his ion canons, “It would be a just reward for apprehending two traitor—“

Growl’s words cut off in a shriek of pain as Detour shoved his vibroblade between the Micromaster’s sideplates, burying it deep within his chassis, before yanking it up to sever the main energon line. Bright fluid sprayed out of the wound as Growl tried desperately to staunch the flow with his servos. Deadlock was on him in an instant, driving his short sword into the flailing mechanoid’s spark casing. With a crunch of metal and an audible crackle, his spark shattered. A moment later, Growl hit the floor of the corridor, motionless.

Detour’s expression was inscrutable as he turned to regard Deadlock, “You have half a klik and then I am activating the tacnet. I will fire on either of you if I lay optics on you again.”

Deadlock stared at the saboteur for a long moment before he gestured for Knock Out to follow him. The medic stepped around Growl’s chassis, careful not to tread in the pool of energon that was rapidly spreading across the floor. 

“We must hurry.” Deadlock murmured, breaking into a quick jog as they retreated down the corridor. Knock Out glanced behind them briefly as he followed. Detour stood over his partner, wiping energon off his vibroblade with a neutral expression on his face. Knock Out shook his head in grudging admiration, before they continued through the storage section.

“How is he?” Deadlock asked, glancing around the corner towards the main cargo compartment. The passage was dark and quiet.

“He’s alright.” Knock Out said, after a while. His voice was tight with tension, “Where are we going?”

“The ground bridge.” Deadlock replied as he rounded the corner, jogging toward the large doors at the end of the corridor.

Knock Out rolled his optics expressively.

“Yes, thank-you. I had gathered that fact.” He replied sarcastically, “I meant afterwards.”

“Scotland.”

Knock Out frowned, confusion spreading through his processor. Before he could ask for clarification, however, the corridor went dark. A moment later, the dim glow of emergency lights came on at the same time that a klaxon started blaring through the hall. Deadlock and Knock Out glanced at each other for a brief moment, before they ran to the doors at the end of the corridor. Deadlock punched in the keycode and Knock Out could not hide his sigh of relief when the doors slid open.

Evidentially, Soundwave had not had time to lock down the ship.

The quickly stepped into the large hangar, making their way around storage crates and broken down equipment. There, in the middle of the large space, was the ground bridge arch. Deadlock stepped up to the control panel, powering on the machine and running through the start-up sequence.

Knock Out shifted from pede to pede, glancing anxiously at the doors behind them.

“Not to cramp your style, but you had better hurry your aft up. It won’t be long before we have company.”

“It takes time.” Deadlock replied, not looking up from the control panel. His servos flew over the keyboard in front of him, typing in the necessary coding.

“How much time?” Knock Out demanded. He glanced down at Sam, before tucking the fragile boy closer to his chassis. The kid was going to get one hell of a surprise when he woke up—for better or for worse.

“As long as it takes.” Deadlock replied, irritation edging his words.

“Look, I’m not telling you how to do your job—“

Knock Out was interrupted by the sound of shouting in the corridor. He stiffened from helm to pede, moving closer to the archway.

“Any time, Deadlock!”

The sound of shouting drew closer, the ringing of metal against metal growing louder as his former comrades approached the hangar. Red light spilled into the dim room as the double doors slid open.

“Now, Deadlock!” Knock Out hissed, hysteria leaking into his voice.

A brilliant blue-green miasma exploded to life within the archway, colors swirling in on one another. Knock Out glanced over his shoulder in time to see Detour, Shockwave, and Acid Storm run towards them with their canons charged and murder on their faces. Without waiting to see whether the connection was stable, Knock Out ran through the archway—

—straight into a cluster of Autobot troops. Optimus Prime stood front and center, battle mask engaged and his arm-mounted canon glowing brightly in the late-afternoon sun of northern Scotland. Knock Out could also make out Ironhide, Ratchet, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Bumblebee among the other soldiers gathered.

He stood dumbfounded for the space of a nanosecond before blurting, “Are you fragging _kidding_ me right now?”

At the same time, Deadlock burst through the ground bridge, energon sword in hand.

“Shut it down!” He roared, pivoting in time to deflect a red blaster bolt that shot through the archway. Chaos erupted for a brief moment—ion and plasma fire streaked through the ground bridge in both directions. Knock Out clutched Sam closed to his chassis, tensing to jump out of the line of fire, when a blaster bolt caught him squarely in the back. He stumbled forward, curling his frame around the precious cargo in his arms. Suddenly, a red and white mechanoid was there, shielding Knock Out as he dragged him away from the arch.

A moment later, the blue-green miasma disappeared.

“Disassemble the arch.” Deadlock ordered curtly, “Soundwave can certainly reverse-search these coordinates.”

“Perceptor, make it quick.” Optimus Prime commanded.

Knock Out ex-vented harshly, his primary visual display cascading with a series of warning messages and damage reports. The red and white mechanoid helped guide him to his knees.

“It looks worse than it is.” He assured Knock Out, already wrist-deep in his spinal plating, “Let me get the energon bleed under control first, and then—“

Before the field medic could finish speaking, Knock Out glanced up to see Ratchet towering over him. The chartreuse CMO extended his servos impatiently.

“Give him to me. Now.”

Knock Out hesitated, glancing down at the boy in his arms, before lifting him towards the Autobot medic. Ratchet took him without another word, jogging towards a second ground bridge located across the field. As Knock Out watched, Bumblebee separated from the others, following closely behind the medic as they stepped through the archway together.

A moment later, Sam was gone.

Knock Out grimaced as the field medic clamped his secondary energon line, before glancing over his shoulder at the mechanoid.

“Your technique leaves much to be desired.” He commented dryly.

“You’re welcome.” The medic returned, just as dryly.

“What is the meaning of this, Deadlock?” Optimus Prime rumbled. Knock Out glanced up to see that the Autobot leader was staring down at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. It took him a moment to realize that Deadlock was on his knees, servos restrained behind his back. His weapons had also been removed, and were currently in the possession of the Autobot’s bulky weapons specialist.

“He was the boy’s primary care provider. He arrived at the medical bay shortly after I did.” Deadlock said, a grimace twisting on his faceplates as a large red, white, and blue mechanoid pulled him to his feet.

“So he decided to tag along?” Ironhide sneered, looking up from the broadsword that he held reverently in his servos, “Knock Out’s not known for his altruism.”

“Perhaps not.” Knock Out agreed blandly, wincing as the medic began soldering his tertiary spinal connectors, “But I am a pragmatist. I wasn’t staying on the _Nemesis_ to suffer Megatron’s wrath.”

“There’s a big leap between desertion and defection.” Ironhide scoffed, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

“Well, my illustrious companion didn’t mention the fact that we were bridging into an Autobot encampment.” Knock Out admitted, “But, since I’m here anyway…”

“Take them both to the _Ark_ and process them.” The red, white, and blue mechanoid ordered curtly.

“I’m going to need a minute here.” The field medic said distractedly.

“First Aid, you can have all the time you need after we’re back at Diego Garcia.”

The medic huffed in exasperation, but dutifully stepped aside as Hot Rod and Cliffjumper pulled Knock Out to his feet. The Autobots made to guide him towards the ground bridge, when something possessed Knock Out to turn towards Prime.

“Wait.” He called out. The Autobot leader turned slightly to regard him with solemn optics. Taking this as permission to continue, Knock Out said, hesitantly, “Sam… he’s not well.”

“Of course he’s not well.” Sunstreaker snapped, bristling, “He’s been your prisoner for almost two years.”

Knock Out ignored the warrior, staring meaningfully at Prime. After a moment, his primary visual display notified him of an incoming _ping_ from a source with Autobot identifiers. Knock Out accepted the connection, immediately sending a simple data packet to the Autobot leader. A moment later, Prime’s optics widened marginally in surprise, before narrowing in tightly leashed anger.

“Take him to the _Ark._ ” He commanded curtly.

Knock Out allowed himself to be steered towards the archway without another word.

* * *

Sam’s first salient thought upon waking was that he was _comfortable_ —a sensation that he had not felt in all the time that he had been a prisoner. Rather than the hardness of metal beneath his body and the cool chill of recycled air against his skin, he was ensconced in softness and warmth. He squinted open his eyes in confusion, glancing down at himself as he did so. He was lying on a hospital gurney, rather than the familiar berth, covered in heavy linen blankets.

All at once, he became aware of the warm presence in his mind. It wrapped closely around him, solid and comforting. His eyes snapped to the side, following the mental trail, to find Ratchet standing a short distance away. The medic’s optics were soft, his expression openly concerned. Sam’s heart leapt into his throat in an instant.

“ _Ratchet?”_ He whispered, disbelievingly.

“Yes, it’s me.” The medic said, stepping forward to cup a servo against Sam’s shoulder.

Dread lodged itself like a spear in his chest, “What are you doing here?”

Ratchet stroked a heavy thumb across his shoulder blades. The gesture was familiar and soothing.

“You’re not onboard the _Nemesis,_ Sam. You’re in the medical bay at Diego Garcia. Look.” Ratchet swept his other arm wide, gesturing with a servo to the large hangar. Sam’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the familiar sight of the berths arranged along the walls and medical equipment stored neatly on workbenches.

Sam felt his throat close up with emotion, tears gathering in his eyes.

“I’m dreaming. This isn’t real.”

Ratchet’s mouthplates quirked in a smile, but his optics were fathomless.

“I assure you, Sam, this is very real.”

Sam struggled into a sitting position, reaching out an unsteady hand to press flat against Ratchet’s spark casing. The metal was warm beneath his skin, familiar blue light glowing from between his fingers. The sight caused his head to pitch forward, chin falling to his chest, as he started to cry. His thin body was wracked by the force of his silent sobbing, but his hand did not move from where it lay pressed against Ratchet’s chassis. All at once, Ratchet’s familiar presence filled their bond-space, concern and affection washing over him in waves. The medic stepped closer, curling forward to bracket Sam with his body, as his servos brushed down his back.

They stayed like that until the force of Sam’s sobbing had abated. It was only then that he became aware of the sharp note of anguish and concern that niggled at the edge of his consciousness. Sam went rigid, his head snapping towards the hangar doors, as he threw himself at the winter-white glow that waited at the edge of his mind.

“ _Bumblebee!”_ He shrieked, and their bond flared to life in his mind.

Immediately, Bumblebee’s holoform flickered into existence at his bedside. The holoform was much the same as he remembered, although the lines around his eyes were more pronounced. Sam kicked off the blankets before lunging at him with a cry. Bumblebee met him halfway, crushing Sam against his chest. He dug his fingers into the flesh of Bumblebee’s arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“I love you.” Sam gasped, “I love you.”

He felt a burst of _love-agony-relief_ flare across their bond, as the holoform’s arms tightened around him. There was the sound of rapid-fire transformation, and Sam opened his eyes to see Bumblebee crouching beside him in his bi-pedal mode. He let go of the holoform, reaching out his hands to grasp either side of his bonded’s face. Bumblebee’s optics were impossibly bright, brimming with barely contained emotion. After a heartbeat, the scout raised his servos to press gently against Sam’s hands.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut again. _If this is a dream, please God, let me die right now. I don’t want to wake up._

Bumblebee made an anguished sound, his mental presence spilling across their bond-space to fill Sam’s mind. It was reverent and longing, fierce and protective, and impossibly tender. It was a promise and an apology, both.

“Sam.” Ratchet admonished gently, reaching forward to brush Bumblebee’s servos away, before tugging at Sam’s arms. All at once, Sam became aware of the sharp pain in his hands. It took him a long moment to realize that he had been gripping the edges of Bumblebee’s faceplates until the metal had cut into the soft skin of his palms. He let Ratchet draw his hands away, but his eyes were glued to Bumblebee’s optics.

“How?” He asked, at last.

“There was a coup. Three Decepticons defected, taking you with them when they fled.”

Sam tensed, glancing at Ratchet as he spread cool gel over the cuts on his palms, “Who?”

“Ambulon, Deadlock, and Knock Out.” Ratchet replied.

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline at the news, a flurry of emotion lodging itself in his chest. Knock Out had come—had helped to rescue him from that hellhole.

Ratchet glanced up at him, mild surprise in his optics. Sam flinched slightly, uncertainty and embarrassment combining to spread a flush across his face.

“He was kind to me.” Sam said after a moment, an apology in his voice.

Ratchet’s optics hardened as he leaned forward, gripping Sam’s arms in his servos.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Ratchet said, his voice uncharacteristically emotive, “You did what you had to do to survive, there is no shame in that.”

Sam stared up into Ratchet’s face, searching for any hint of derision or disappointment. The medic’s mental presence swelled across their bond—a complicated mix of concern, anger, and guilt—before he receded behind a heavy block. The sudden absence of his presence was like a cold dose of water, and Sam shivered in response.

“Don’t… don’t go.” He said, hating the vulnerability in his voice, “Please.”

He didn’t want to be alone, not for another second.

Ratchet’s optics flickered to his face, staring at him for a long moment, before the blocks in his mind shivered and fell away. The medic’s presence filled his mind again, warm and comforting, as he drew Sam’s mental presence towards him.

“Alright, Sam. It’s alright.” He murmured, “You aren’t alone, not anymore.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of _sincerity_ that thrummed through their bond. He leaned into their mental presences—his Creator and his bonded—allowing their light and warmth to keep the shadows of his mind at bay, at least for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is absolutely [ Bumblebee and Sam’s song](https://youtu.be/LWfFm-fsXIc) for the whole time that Sam was in captivity.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have said this before, but I was _blown away_ by the reaction to my last chapter. Thank-you so much for your enthusiasm and support. I truly could not do this without you guys. I appreciate each and every one of you.
> 
> If you are so interested, [ this is how I picture Sam this chapter ](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/e_PzUWr9OhwFp-rxCoKPAiLhv1E/fit-in/1024x1024/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2012/08/34/4/192/1922398/b3c036f39cb327c6_150594180_10/i/Shia-LaBeouf-displayed-long-hair-full-beard-premiere.jpg). Sasha300, I found it!
> 
>  **Chapter warnings** \- Minor PTSD symptoms, nothing drastic yet.

“Sam.” Bumblebee murmured softly, “Sam, come on. Wake up.”

Sam groaned, turning his head to burrow his face into the pillow, before mumbling something that might have been interpreted as, “Leave me alone.”

Although the pillow was thin and lumpy, it felt like heaven after two years of sleeping on the cold, hard floor or on an equally unforgiving berth. He lay there for a few moments, just beginning to drift off again, when Bumblebee gave his shoulder a little shove.

“Don’t fall back to sleep.”

“What do you want?” Sam grumbled into the pillow.

“It’s time to get up.” Bumblebee said apologetically, “You need to eat something.”

“Bee, I haven’t slept in two years. It can wait.”

“Sorry, Ratchet’s orders.”

Sam groaned softly in response. After he had calmed down from their emotional reunion, Ratchet had been all business. The medic had brought him a simple meal, dry toast and applesauce, before setting up an intravenous fluid drip as Sam picked at the food. After he had finished eating, feeling uncomfortably full despite the meager portions, Ratchet had ordered him to get some rest. Sam had stared at him in disbelief, protesting that he had just woken up, but the medic had been as unyielding as iron. Before they could start arguing in earnest, Bumblebee’s holoform had climbed onto the gurney, guiding Sam to lay down beside him. Bee had stayed there like that, gently stroking his fingers up and down Sam’s back, until he had fallen to sleep.

The memory motivated him to turn his head slightly, squinting open his eyes. Bumblebee’s holoform was still beside him; they laid facing each other, chest to chest, with their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. The holoform’s expression was faintly amused, his lips quirked with the barest hint of a smile. The sight of him made Sam’s lips curve upwards in a smile of his own—he had never woken up beside the holoform before.

“Good morning.” Sam murmured, voice rough from sleep. He reached out a hand to trace the line of the holoform’s jaw, brushing his thumb across his chin, “Is it morning?”

The holoform’s eyes softened in fond amusement.

“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“How long was I out?”

“About ten hours. You can go back to sleep after you’ve eaten.”

Sam huffed quietly, “Bee, that’s been the tagline of my life for the last two years.”

Although Sam had meant the words lightly, Bumblebee’s expression darkened with a mixture of consternation, anger, and remorse. The holoform reached out a hand, pressing it firmly against the side of Sam’s face.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam huffed again, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Hey, no brooding in bed. It’s a major turn-off.” He said, aiming for a teasing tone but falling flat. The holoform frowned faintly, but before he could reply, Ratchet’s voice carried across the hangar.

“There’s to be no _anything_ in bed in my medical bay, you reprobates.”

Sam lifted his head, glancing in the direction of the voice. Ratchet strode towards them, one servo cupped in front of his chassis, with exasperation written all over his faceplates. The dry reproach was so stereotypically _Ratchet_ that Sam found himself grinning in response.

“Good afternoon to you too.”

The medic stopped at his bedside, giving Bumblebee a pointed look, before turning his focus towards Sam. The holoform smiled at Sam apologetically before dematerializing from his side. A moment later, there was the sound of shifting metal, and then Bumblebee straightened to his full height beside Ratchet. Sam hadn’t realized that his guardian had been waiting in his alt mode just a short distance away.

Sam’s attention was abruptly pulled away from his musings as Ratchet initiated a sensor sweep. He grunted in surprise as the glitchy red scan swept him from his head to his toes, leaving an unpleasant pins-and-needles sensation in its wake. As soon as the red light disappeared, Ratchet leaned forward to place a tray on his overbed table.

“Your vitals are better this afternoon. How do you feel?”

Sam shrugged, pushing himself into a sitting position before pulling the overbed table closer towards him.

“Pretty good, I guess. All things considered.” Sam glanced down at the tray, grimacing as he did so. Ratchet had brought him a thin broth, a Kaiser roll, and an individually wrapped package of saltines, “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be happy if I never see another MRE again, but soup?”

Ratchet scoffed loudly, crossing his arms over his chassis, “If Knock Out had any sense at all, you wouldn’t have been eating ready-made meals in the first place. Given your limited caloric intake and substantial metabolic stress, it could have killed you.”

Sam frowned faintly, feeling inexplicably offended on Knock Out’s behalf.

“He did the best that he could.”

Ratchet stiffened, looking as though he were wrestling with the impulse to say something scathing at Knock Out’s expense. Eventually, he ex-vented slowly before speaking with an air of affected calm.

“Be that as it may, you lost thirty-two pounds during your captivity. To avoid re-feeding syndrome, you will adhere to a strict diet for the next two weeks.”

“Lucky me.” Sam replied dryly, picking up his spoon. The soup steamed lightly in the cool air of the medical bay, thin and brown with finely diced vegetables. Eating with the IV taped to the back of his hand proved to be a nuisance, but he managed it. Ratchet watched him the entire time that he ate, his expression one of clinical focus. It was not until Sam was halfway through his soup that the medic spoke again.

“When you have finished eating, you can have a shower. Dave brought a change of clothing and toiletries while you slept.”

Sam went rigid, his heart leaping into his throat as he looked up at the medic.

“He’s alive, then?” Sam asked quietly.

Something softened in Ratchet’s optics, “Yes, he’s alive. Although he was seriously injured in the attack, he recovered without complications.”

Sam swallowed hard, trying to control the emotions that swelled through him—relief, worry, _guilt_. After a moment, he realized that he was gripping the spoon so tightly that the tendons in his hand ached. Sam relaxed his grip with conscious effort, forcing himself to meet Ratchet’s gaze again.

“Did anyone die?”

Ratchet’s expression became inscrutable, neither his physical appearance nor his mental presence betraying anything of his emotions.

“I don’t want you dwelling on that, Sam. You need to focus on your recovery right now.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed dangerously, irritation flaring through him in an instant.

“How many?” He demanded.

Ratchet’s faceplates downturned in a disapproving frown, but before the medic could reply, Sam exploded.

“How many people died, Ratchet? Ten? A _hundred_? How many people did Megatron kill trying to find me?” Sam was shouting by the time that he had finished speaking, his voice strangled by the force of his anger.

Ratchet’s expression cooled noticeably, “Thirty-one people died in the attack.”

Sam stared at the medic uncomprehendingly, unable to process his words. He was distantly aware of the way his heart had started to beat erratically in his chest, causing his pulse to thunder in his ears, but it was a periphery concern. Barely noticeable.

_Thirty-one people died because of me._

All at once, Bumblebee’s holoform appeared on the berth at his bedside. He reached out, gripping both of Sam’s shoulders, forcing him to turn towards him. The holoform’s expression was grim and concerned, his grip bordering on painful.

“They didn’t die because of you, Sam. They died because of Megatron.” Bumblebee said earnestly, his eyes searching Sam’s face, “You have to believe that.”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, something ugly lodging itself in his chest. He squeezed his eyes closed, head tipping forward until his chin practically rested on his sternum.

“You can pretty it up however you like, Bee. Megatron came here for me.” Sam said quietly. A thought suddenly occurred to him and Sam’s head snapped up, fear replacing his bitter anger in an instant, “He’s not going to stop. He promised me—wherever I go, he’ll find me.” Sam swallowed hard, “It’s not safe here, not anymore. I have to leave.”

Bumblebee’s holoform didn’t move, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Sam’s shoulders.

“You’re safe, Sam. A lot has changed since the attack.”

Sam felt his fear sharpen into the first stirrings of panic at the scout’s comforting tone, “You’re not listening to me! Don’t you get it? He won’t stop, not ever. As long as I’m here, everyone on this island is in danger.”

“Calm down, Sam.” Ratchet said, stepping closer to the berth. The medic’s earlier disapproval had vanished, replaced by stark concern, “Bumblebee is right, the island is protected. You’re safe.”

Sam stared at the medic incredulously for the space of a second before he barked a sharp laugh.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

Although Bumblebee flinched as though he had been struck, Ratchet did not react to his words. He continued to stare down at Sam, his visage calm and composed, with his arms folded loosely over his chassis.

“Wheeljack and Perceptor have developed an energy barrier, which is currently encapsulating the base. We have also upgraded our energon detection network, extending its range to 100 kilometers in all directions. No one, Seeker or otherwise, is getting the drop on us again. If they try, then they will be shot out of the sky with our improved air defense system, courtesy of Red Alert and Ironhide.” Ratchet’s words were said matter-of-factly, as though he were sharing an indisputable truth, and Sam felt some of the tension leave his body. Bumblebee squeezed his shoulders again, brushing across his mind in a gesture that was both familiar and reassuring.

After a long moment, Sam found himself asking, “Red Alert?”

“Red Alert is our Security Director. There have been a number of new arrivals in your absence.”

He was distantly aware that the medic was trying to distract him, but despite himself, Sam felt his curiosity pique at the information. When Ratchet was not forthcoming with any additional details, Sam sent a wordless _pulse_ of frustrated inquiry across their bond. Only then, did Ratchet oblige him.

“Red Alert arrived with Inferno, a rescue bot, and Smokescreen, a diversionary tactician, approximately two months after the attack. Hoist, First Aid, Grapple, and Beachcomber arrived six months ago. Hoist and First Aid are part of the medical corps. Grapple is an architect and Beachcomber is a geologist.”

“A geologist?” Sam repeated in surprise. He had never realized that geology was a viable career path for a Cybertronian, before or after the start of the Great War.

“A geologist.” Ratchet confirmed, “He is the most solitary of the bunch, being what humans might call a tree hugger.”

Sam’s eyebrows flew up at the medic’s dry tone, a grin splitting his face of its own accord, “A _tree hugger_?”

“I believe I have the correct vernacular. A tree hugger. A hippy. An anti-war naturalist.”

Sam laughed, genuinely delighted with each new phrase that came out of Ratchet’s vocalizer, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

“There will be time for all of that later. Do you feel up to a shower?” Ratchet asked, cutting off Bumblebee before his guardian could reply. Sam considered the question seriously, and then he nodded.

“Yeah, I think so.” Sam said, hesitating, “Ratchet, listen—“

“It’s alright, Sam. I’m not upset.” Ratchet said, correctly interpreting Sam’s disquiet, “Your apology is appreciated but unnecessary.”

Sam brushed mental fingers over the medic’s neural presence, trying to convey his appreciation across their bond. He felt Ratchet’s huff of fond exasperation, before the medic’s holoform materialized beside him. He watched as the holoform pushed the bedside table away and grasped Sam’s wrist, efficiently disconnecting the extension tubing from the cannula of the IV. When he did not remove the IV itself, Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion.

“You are on full dose intravenous potassium, phosphate, calcium, and magnesium, and will be so for the next forty-eight hours.” Ratchet explained, helping him pull the blankets down. It was only then that Sam noticed that he was dressed in a familiar hospital gown. Ratchet’s bipedal mode stepped close as his holoform helped him off the gurney, before extending his servo towards him. Sam climbed unsteadily into the medic’s palm, and Ratchet brought him close to his chest as he crossed the hangar.

To Sam’s surprise, he noticed a previously unnoticed door that was set into the wall at the back of the room. The door was human-sized, standing in stark contrast to the _alienness_ of the medical bay. He hesitated for a long moment, before glancing up at the medic.

“That’s new, right? I mean, I’ve spent a lot of time here, and I don’t remember seeing that before.”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, “Yes, it’s new. Given your natural proclivity for injury, I decided to make some changes to the medical bay to better accommodate you.”

The Chief Medical Officer lowered into a crouch, setting Sam on his feet. Immediately, Ratchet’s holoform appeared beside him again, stepping forward to push open the door on his behalf. The room within was small, containing a sink, toilet, and an open air shower. He felt a twinge of appreciation for Ratchet’s consideration—after Ripcord’s attack, Sam had had his fill of bedpans and sponge baths.

As he stepped through the door, Sam noticed a pile of clothing and a small mesh bag on the countertop.

“There is a bench in the shower. Please use it.” Ratchet said, and then his holoform disappeared.

After a moment, Sam stepped forward, running his fingers over the pile of clothing on the countertop. Long sleeved Henley shirt, jeans, boxers, socks. A pair of sneakers. Beside it all, a small pack of toiletries. He unzipped the mesh bag to find, among other items, a travel-sized toothpaste and a toothbrush.

Sam grimaced, suddenly aware of the carrion taste in his mouth. He picked up the toothbrush and toothpaste, before proceeding to scrub two years’ worth of buildup off his teeth and tongue. When he finished, he picked up the mesh bag and made his way over to the shower before turning the temperature gauge to its high setting. At once, water streamed from the showerhead set in the ceiling. With it, came a flood of unwelcome memories.

_The stringent smell of cleanser, steaming in the cold air of the wash racks._

_The sensation of metalmesh scrubbing across his skin, leaving unforgiving redness in its wake._

_Megatron’s pleased rumble, servos on his body as he pressed Sam towards the shower—_

Sam jerked away, gasping loudly as he came back to himself. As he stood there, clutching the mesh bag in his hand and shivering uncontrollably, he became aware of Ratchet’s quiet scrutiny. He tried not to flinch under the weight of the medic’s regard, embarrassment and shame combining to spread a flush across his face.

“It wasn’t always like that.” Sam said quietly, voice barely audible over the drumming of the water against the tiled floor, “He usually let me shower by myself.”

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Ratchet brushed mental fingers across Sam’s mind. The touch was comforting, pacifying, and utterly non-judgmental. Sam’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned towards the sensation. He stayed like that until the remnants of his flashback faded away. By the time that he opened his eyes again, the bathroom had become foggy with steam.

The whole while, Ratchet’s mental presence was a model of control, betraying nothing of his emotions.

Sam sighed softly, steeling himself with grim determination as he pulled the hospital gown off his body. He placed the mesh bag in the alcove set into the shower wall, took a deep breath, and stepped into the flow of water. The shock of heat went straight through him—it was almost painfully hot, nothing like the warm spray of solvent that he remembered. His head pitched forward and he groaned—it felt amazing. He sat there for a long time, letting the water cascade down his back, before he eventually picked up the mesh bag and got to work cleaning himself. He scrubbed with more force than strictly necessary, determined to remove every trace of the _Nemesis_ off his person.

When he finally shut off the shower, his skin was tender and pink. Sam dried himself with the towel that Ratchet had left him, before making his way over to the sink. As he pulled the pants up over his hips, he realized that the clothing fit comfortably, despite his weight loss. Sam’s lips quirked fondly.

_Carter works fast._

Sam pulled the shirt on over his head, before sitting on the floor to put on his shoes and socks. When he finished, he slung the towel over his shoulder and made his way back into the medical bay. Bumblebee was waiting in his alt mode a short distance from the door, while Ratchet had assumed his familiar position at the workbench halfway down the hangar.

“So, I should probably go see a dentist.” Sam said conversationally.

“Although my sensors did not detect any significant damage, you are scheduled to see an ophthalmologist and a dental surgeon this afternoon.” Ratchet said, glancing in his direction, “After you’ve seen Dr. Anderson.”

Sam frowned, coming to a stop next to Bumblebee. He leaned one hip against the Camaro, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t need a psych-eval, Ratchet.” He protested, hating the defensiveness in his voice. They all knew exactly how fucked up he was, no evaluation necessary.

“No, you don’t. Dr. Anderson wants to outline your treatment schedule.”

Sam’s frown deepened, anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach. Although Karen had been his therapist since he had arrived at Diego Garcia, the idea of sharing this aspect of himself with her was intolerable. He had no desire to talk about what it felt like to be tortured, physically and mentally, until he had contemplated suicide. It was too raw. Too soon.

Sam’s train of thought was interrupted by a soft, hesitant caress across his mind. He glanced down at the Camaro in surprise, sending a wordless pulse of inquiry across their bond.

 _//Please, Sam. Go see her, hear what she has to say.//_ Bumblebee implored, _//She can help.//_

The scout’s mental voice made his heart flutter painfully in his chest; it had been two years since he had last heard it. Sam reached out instinctively, pressing against the warm, winter-white glow in his mind. It was security and comfort and love—perfect in every way. All at once, Sam realized that he couldn’t refuse the scout’s request.

“Yeah, alright.” He murmured, “But I’m not making any promises.”

* * *

The meeting with Karen went about as well as could be expected.

Evidentially keen to capitalize on Sam’s pliant mood, Ratchet had sent him straight to South Quad. The drive through the bridge had been strangely disorienting. Although everything was the same as he remembered it, it was also completely different. He felt like an outsider again, an interloper, who did not belong among the soldiers and civilian support staff that they passed. The walk through South Quad to Karen’s office had been equally off-putting. The curious glances that he received from passersby, tinged with recognition and sympathy, had set his teeth on edge. By the time that Karen welcomed him into the familiar room, with its comfortable seating and pleasant decor, he had been in a bad temper.

To her credit, Karen took his bullshit in stride. She neither commented on nor reacted to his sarcasm or biting remarks, instead steering the conversation towards neutral territory. When she had broached the topic of his treatment regimen, Sam narrowed his eyes at her.

“No.”

Karen tilted her head considerately, “Do you have a reason for your objection?”

“I don’t need anti-depressants.” 

“Sam,” Karen started, in what he had come to think of as her therapist’s voice, “There is nothing wrong with requiring a little help to get back to baseline. Sertraline and paroxetine are both widely prescribed for post-traumatic stress disorder and panic attacks.”

Sam worked his jaw for a moment, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair.

“I just don’t want them.”

Karen leaned forward, hands clasped together and resting on the desk in front of her, “Sam, you were suicidal thirty-four days ago. Can you look me in the face and tell me that I don’t have a reason to be concerned?”

“Thirty-four days ago, I was being tortured.” He snapped, letting his head fall against the back of his chair. He stared up at the familiar ceiling for a long moment. If memory served him correctly, there were seventeen tiles there.

“You were.” Karen agreed, “And for almost twenty months prior to that as well.”

He did not reply. _Yup. Seventeen tiles._

“Sam, you don’t just ‘get over’ something like captivity, torture, and forced isolation because you got to come home. An experience like that lingers, and it will eat you alive if you don’t let me help you.”

He swallowed hard, lifting a shoulder in a careless shrug.

“Fine. Whatever you think.”

Karen stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, before leaning back in her chair.

“Alright. I want to start you on sertraline at 25 milligrams a day. We can adjust your dosage, or add additional medication, depending on the severity of your symptoms. We will also resume our bi-weekly sessions, Tuesdays and Fridays. Do you have a time preference?”

Sam winced his eyes shut.

“Sam?”

“No, no preference.”

“Let’s start at our old time, then. One o’clock. If you want to adjust our meeting times, we can do that.” She said, clicking a pen before jotting something down on the pad in front of her, “In between sessions, I want you to start exercising.”

Sam lifted his head from the back of his chair, a frown knitting the space between his eyebrows.

“Karen, I’ve lost thirty-two pounds. There’s no way that Ratchet will sign off on that.”

She huffed a soft laugh, “Nothing too strenuous, and not without Ratchet’s approval. Light impact cardio shouldn’t be an issue—walking, swimming, cycling, whatever you prefer. So long as it gets you outside and moving.”

Sam heaved a sigh, “Fine. How often do I have to do this?”

This time, it was Karen’s turn to frown.

“This isn’t a punishment, Sam. Sunshine, socialization, and endorphins can contribute to positive mental health as much as SSRIs and therapy.”

“Fine.”

“Alright, well, in the meantime you should rest and recuperate.”

“Will do.”

Karen gave him a piercing look, as though she were trying to see inside his head. After a protracted pause, she stood up and gestured for him to join her. They walked out of the office together, into the small receiving area. It was empty, this late in the day, and Sam stood by impatiently as Karen booked their next eight sessions. Then she turned to look at him, a smile warming her face.

“Thank-you for coming today, Sam. I’ll see you on Friday.”

He murmured his farewells, before turning on his heel and leaving the office. He tried not to dwell on the fact that his hasty departure felt like a retreat. Bumblebee’s holoform was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall with a patient expression on his face.

“I’m heading to Ops.” Sam said, by way of greeting, before walking in the direction of Dave’s office. Bumblebee fell into step beside him without comment. They were quiet as they walked, with Sam turning over his conversation with Karen in his mind. Bumblebee seemed to appreciate his need for silence, and the scout respected his introspection. It was no time at all before they turned down the familiar hallway, with its faded patterned carpet and doors that were set in both walls at even intervals. It was unbusy, this late in the day, with most of the support staff having left at five o’clock. One door was cracked open, however, spilling mellow light into the hallway.

Sam stopped in front of the office, rapping on the door with his knuckles.

“Come in.” Dave’s voice called out, and Sam felt his heart start to beat harder against his ribcage. He reached forward to push open the door, revealing the tastefully decorated space. Dave sat behind his L-shaped desk—sans jacket, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—with a focused expression on his face. He looked exactly the same as Sam remembered him: clean shaven, well groomed, with an open, friendly demeanor.

It took a second before Dave’s eyes widened in recognition and surprise. He was on his feet in an instant, making his way around the desk. Before Sam could say a word, the agent grabbed him in a tight hug.

“Jesus, Sam. I’m so glad you’re back.”

Sam’s lips quirked in a faint smile as he lifted his arms to return the agent’s hug. “I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried about you.”

Dave pulled back, holding him by the shoulders as he huffed a laugh, “That’s my line.”

Sam smiled at him, before his eyes fell to the agent’s chest. He could remember the sight of blood blossoming across Dave’s shirt like it was yesterday. Dave frowned faintly, obviously following Sam’s train of thought.

“Hey.” Dave said, catching Sam’s attention, “I’m fine. All good.”

Sam got a grip on himself, forcing the smile back onto his face.

“I’m really glad to hear it. Listen, I wanted to say thank-you for the clothes. I appreciate it.”

Dave shrugged noncommittally, but his expression was amiable, “No problem, it’s my job.”

The words startled a genuine laugh from Sam, “Is Optimus still working you too hard?”

Dave laughed lightly, inclining his head towards the stack of papers on his desk.

“He’s not _not_ working me too hard.” He replied good-naturedly, “But I enjoy it.”

“Of course you do. You’re a masochist.”

Dave laughed again, the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement. Abruptly, Sam felt uncomfortable and out of place, incongruous amongst the keepsakes and the mementos of the office.

“Look, I don’t want to keep you.” Sam said before Dave could reply, stepping away as he pushed his hands into his pockets, “I just wanted to drop by to say hello.”

“I’m so glad that you did.” Dave replied sincerely, “As soon as Ratchet lets you out from under his thumb, let’s grab something to eat at the Hall.”

“So, never then?” Sam asked, forced levity in his voice.

“Hopefully not that long.”

Sam knew a moment of awkward anxiety, unsure how to extricate himself from the agent’s office, when Bumblebee stepped into the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Ratchet wants Sam back at medical.”

Dave’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, “No, of course. Thanks for coming by, Sam.”

Sam nodded at the agent, waving good-bye, before he stepped into the hallway. They were out of Ops, halfway back to the bridge, when he glanced over at Bumblebee with a faint smile of appreciation.

“Infiltrators really are excellent liars.”

Bumblebee graced him with a broad grin, “The best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did a lot of reading about re-feeding syndrome in researching this chapter. Let's just say that Sam is very lucky for the Allspark energy radiating from his cells, or he would literally be dead.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you again for your enthusiasm and support, guys. I truly don't have the words to express my appreciation.
> 
>  **Chapter warning** \- Explicit sexual content, (unintentional) self-harm.

After they left South Quad, Bumblebee informed him that they had forty minutes before his seven o’clock appointment. Sam huffed a sigh as he walked towards the gleaming yellow Camaro parked just outside of the quad entrance. Bumblebee popped open his door as he approached, and Sam climbed into the familiar cab without hesitation. He shifted against the leather seat, reaching out to brush a thumb over the Autobot emblem set into the steering wheel.

“What are the new guys like?” He asked after a moment, surprising himself.

Bumblebee’s door closed with an audible _snap_ , the dash lights brightening as his engine turned over.

“I don’t know them that well.” He admitted after a moment, accelerating through the bridge, “Red Alert is nice but paranoid, although he is a security director. He and Inferno have been partners since before the Great War.”

Bumblebee slowed down in order to turn into the receiving room. The large hangar was busy, despite the hour. On one end of the room was a long row of terminals and monitors, at which sat a cluster of busy looking technicians. Soldiers in full combat gear were stationed at both entrances, M4s held securely across their chests. At the opposite end of the room, standing close to the lift, were two unfamiliar mechanoids. One was red, blue, and silver with a large blaster mounted to each shoulder pauldron. His companion was a bulky mechanoid, plated entirely in yellow and blue. As Bumblebee drew closer, Sam could see that they were engaged in an animated discussion.

“Smokescreen and Grapple.” Bumblebee explained, sensing his curiosity. Something about his guardian’s tone took Sam by surprise, and he glanced down at the dashboard.

“Not friends of yours, I take it?”

Bumblebee chirped at him, “Smokescreen is a diversionary tactician, but he should have been in Spec Ops. He reports everything that he sees straight to Prime.”

Sam’s lips twitched up, “So he’s a snitch, then?”

“He’s an excellent soldier and a valuable ally.” Bumblebee said, amusement in his voice, “But yes, he’s a snitch.”

The two Autobots turned to regard Bumblebee as he accelerated towards the lift. The yellow and blue mechanoid raised a hand in a friendly wave, and Bee flashed his high beams in response.

“Grapple, he’s the architect?”

“He is. He’s also bonded to Hoist.”

Sam glanced at the dash in surprise, before his gaze flicked back to the yellow and blue mechanoid. The Autobot was staring down at them, curiosity written all over his faceplates. After a moment, they made eye contact through the windshield, and Grapple waved again. Sam hesitantly raised his hand and waved back as Bumblebee came to a stop on the lift. They waited as a number of people shuffled forward to join them, and then the lift began to rise towards the ceiling.

“The newcomers… do they think it’s strange? That we’re bonded?” Sam asked.

“They were surprised, certainly. If you are asking whether they disapprove, then no.” Bumblebee responded, before his voice turned reassuring, “Their opinions wouldn’t matter to me either way, Sam. You’re mine.”

Sam was blindsided by the way Bee’s words cut through him, causing him to flinch back against the seat. He could almost hear Megatron’s smooth voice, rumbling that same hated phrase— _You are not a lesson, you’re mine. Now and always._

“Sam.” Bumblebee murmured, horrified, “I’m sorry.”

The scout’s words snapped Sam back to himself. It took a long moment before he could reply around the lump in his throat.

“Don’t be.” He said roughly, “You’re right, I am yours. Only yours.”

Bumblebee brushed mental fingers across his mind, as though in agreement. When the lift finished its ascent, Sam was surprised to see that the building at ground-level was nothing like he remembered. Rather than the large, empty hangar, he found himself within a smaller vault-like structure. Bumblebee accelerated forward as the heavy blast doors in front of them slowly opened, spilling sunshine into the dusky space.

“Security upgrades?” Sam guessed dryly.

“Security upgrades.” Bumblebee confirmed.

They pulled out onto Britannia Way, accelerating towards the opposite end of the Downtown area. Sam glanced around them with undisguised curiosity. The base was largely the same as he remembered, but as they approached the dining facility, Sam realized that many of the buildings were unfamiliar to him. He glanced down at the dashboard, looking for an explanation.

“Megatron and Acid Storm heavily damaged this part of the base. We had to rebuild the administrative buildings from scratch, and the old dining hall had to be torn down.”

Sam frowned, a sharp sense of loss needling him at the scout’s words. He had spent many evenings at the Hall with the guys, watching football and drinking. It was how he had come to join their social group, friends despite the differences in their age and experience. Although the Hall was just a building, its destruction stung all the same.

Bumblebee continued past the edge of Downtown, driving west towards Simpson Point. It took less than five minutes before they pulled up to the secluded beach, with its white sand and scrubby brush dotting the high water line. Bee popped open his door, but Sam didn’t move—he sat stiffly in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. His guardian said nothing, waiting patiently for him to come to a decision. Eventually, Sam uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel and climbed out of the cab. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets, staring out at the vast expanse of cerulean water, as Bumblebee reversed. A moment later, the scout transformed into his bipedal mode and crouched down beside him.

“I always liked it here.” Sam said quietly, “It’s peaceful.”

Bumblebee whistled at him contentedly, reaching forward to stroke a heavy digit down his spine. Sam glanced up at him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He enjoyed the feeling of Bumblebee’s hands on him, whether mechanical or holoform. His touch always left a pleasant warmth in its wake. Sam reached out, brushing against the side of Bee’s face affectionately. The scout shuttered his optics, warbling something quietly in Cybertronian in response.

Sam didn’t need to speak the language to know what it was that Bumblebee had said.

“Right back at you.” He replied.

They stayed like that for the better part of ten minutes, not speaking but communicating volumes through touch and emotion. Eventually, Bumblebee straightened up, looking down at him in regret.

“We have to go. You’re due at medical in ten.”

Sam stepped away, letting Bumblebee transform, before climbing into the scout’s cab. They drove back towards the Downtown in silence. Bumblebee parked outside of the medical facility, and then they made their way into the building. It was surprisingly busy, with people in varying states of dress sitting around the large waiting room. The space could have been in any clinic in Middle America—generic prints hanging on the walls, side tables filled with old magazines, and signage with bland but obvious medical advice posted around the room. Bumblebee walked straight to the reception desk, speaking quietly with the man sitting behind the counter. The private glanced in Sam’s direction, before standing and gesturing for them to follow him.

Eventually, Sam found himself in a small, dark room with an assortment of unfamiliar looking machinery. A heavyset, middle-aged doctor entered shortly thereafter, introducing herself as Dr. Wiley, before proceeding with Sam’s eye exam. He dutifully answered the questions that she put to him, holding the black spoon over one eye and then the other, as he read from the chart on the opposite wall. When he finished, she instructed him to sit in front of the nearest piece of machinery. The doctor talked as she worked, explaining the purpose of the tonometer, before telling him to “Hold still, little puff of air.”

He could not prevent the full-body jerk that happened when the jet of air hit him in the eye.

“That is the most unpleasant thing I have ever experienced.” He said conversationally, before grudgingly resuming his position in front of the machine.

“Yeah, no one likes the tonometer.”

There was another puff of air, but despite knowing what to expect, Sam still jumped in his seat.

“Okay, one more.”

Sam made an exasperated sound before resuming his position. The doctor repeated the test with his other eye, and by the time that she was finished, Sam’s skin was crawling. As they made their way out of the exam room and towards dentistry, Sam muttered peevishly to Bumblebee, “If Megatron ever runs out of new ideas for torture, I can give him a few pointers.”

Bumblebee turned to look at him, expression aghast, but Sam merely lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

His appointment at dentistry was less uncomfortable, at least. He was x-rayed and examined, before being sent to the dental hygienist for a cleaning. He stared at the television in the ceiling, aware of Bumblebee’s quiet scrutiny across their bond, as the young woman worked on him. In no time at all, he was on his way towards the parking lot, with the taste of fluoride in his mouth.

As Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, he became acutely aware of his exhaustion. It pulled at him, body and mind, and he scrubbed a hand over his face as Bumblebee turned onto the road. The sun was low in the sky, painting the horizon in brilliant oranges and pinks, as they drove back towards the Hive. Sam stared at the sunset unthinkingly right up until the moment that Bumblebee drove into the bunker. As the heavy blast doors lumbered shut behind them, the warm light vanished. Sam closed his eyes, turning to press his cheek against the supple leather of Bee’s seat. He stayed like that, silent and unmoving, until they pulled into Ratchet’s medical bay.

It took a monumental effort for Sam to climb out of Bee’s cab. Ratchet stood by his berth, arms folded over his chassis, with a clinical expression on his face. Sam ambled towards him, hands in his pockets and a weary stoop to his shoulders.

“You’ve been given a clean bill of health by Drs. Wiley and Scott. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” Sam admitted.

Ratchet nodded faintly, crouching down as he extended a servo towards him, “That is understandable. You can rest after you’ve eaten.”

It was a testament to his exhaustion that Sam let the comment pass without complaint. Ratchet set him down on the berth, and Sam took off his shoes and jeans, before climbing onto the gurney. As soon as he was settled, Ratchet’s holoform appeared beside him. The medic reconnected the intravenous tubing to the cannula taped to the back of his hand, before adjusting the clamp at the bottom of the bag of fluids. Sam leaned back against the pillows, pulling the blankets over his legs. A moment later, the holoform pushed the overbed table towards him. Sam glanced down curiously to see that Ratchet had brought him a tray from the cafeteria—oatmeal, yogurt, and a banana. Beside the plate was a small, familiar paper cup. He frowned faintly, feeling inexplicably irritated at the sight of the medication. It was not as though Karen was going to forget about their conversation.

“I’ll lower the lights. Eat as much as you can.” Ratchet instructed, before he moved away.

Sam obediently picked up the banana, peeling it with a well-practiced motion, as Bumblebee accelerated forward to park a short distance away. He started working through his dinner, but he had barely put a dent in the oatmeal before he was nodding off. A moment later, warm hands were on his shoulders, gently guiding him to lay back against the mattress. Sam blinked up at Bumblebee’s holoform, who moved the overbed table aside, before lying down on the gurney beside him. Sam sighed softly, shifting forward to tuck his nose into the crook of the holoform’s neck. He felt a fierce swell of affection from across their bond, a moment before Bumblebee draped an arm across his waist.

Sam was asleep moments later.

* * *

Sam dreamed as he always did, in snatches of memory and emotion. Imagery skipped across his mind, simultaneously logical and bizarre. Ravage, padding along beside him as he walked through Ops. Bumblebee crouched in front of him, handing Sam a package of candy. Optimus frowning down at him, disappointment written all over his face.

_“Tell me, what would Optimus Prime think of that?”_

A sudden, loud crash startled Sam into wakefulness. He surged upwards in bed with a choked cry, panic seizing him in an instant. Hands were on him a moment later, restraining and firm. Unthinkingly, Sam lashed out, struggling to get away from the blankets tangled around his legs. A warm body pressed against his back, wrapping him in a bear hug that pinned his arms to his sides.

“ _Sam._ ” Bumblebee said sharply, his voice breaking through the haze of Sam’s panic, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His breath came in shuddering gasps as reality slowly reasserted itself. He blinked rapidly, realizing all at once where he was. The medical bay was almost exactly the same as it had been before he fell asleep, with one glaring exception—an unknown Autobot stood halfway across the hangar, an empty box in his servos, as dozens of metal cylinders rolled across the floor in every direction. The red and white mechanoid was perfectly still, an expression of guilty remorse on his face.

He stared at the stranger for the length of a heartbeat, before blurting incredulously, “ _Who the hell are you_?”

Realizing that Sam was fully cognizant again, Bumblebee’s grip around his mid-section loosened.

“Sam, meet First Aid. First Aid, meet Sam.” Bee said dryly.

“Please accept my sincere apologies, Sam. I feel terrible.” First Aid said contritely, bending down to gather the cylinders back into the box.

“Not as terrible as you’re going to feel in about thirty seconds.” Bumblebee replied blithely.

First Aid ex-vented a loud sigh, as though in resigned agreement. Sam glanced over his shoulder at the holoform in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, the doors to the hangar banged open. Ratchet stalked into the medical bay with all the fury of a hurricane, pointing at First Aid as he snapped a question in Cybertronian. First Aid whistled apologetically, gesturing towards the crate that he held. Ratchet’s optics flashed dangerously as he exploded into an angry tirade.

Sam didn’t need to understand the language to know that Ratchet was being decidedly unflattering. He leaned back against Bumblebee, feeling a swell of sympathy for the other medic. The holoform’s hands splayed over Sam’s stomach, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his skin. As First Aid retrieved the last of the canisters, he glanced in Sam’s direction.

“It was nice to meet you, Sam. I am sorry that it wasn’t under better circumstances.” 

Sam’s lips quirked in a smile. The Autobot’s voice was kind, his entire demeanor open and friendly.

“It was nice to meet you too.”

First Aid crossed one arm over his chassis, bending deeply at the waist, before he turned and made his way out of the medical bay. Sam huffed softly, disquieted by the familiar gesture.

“I wish they would stop doing that.” He muttered.

“They bow to you not only to honor what you have done, in saving Prime’s life, but also to keep the spirit of our people alive.” Ratchet admonished, crossing the bay towards him. He came to a stop a short distance away, tilting his head in open consideration, “How are you feeling?”

Sam laughed softly, “I’m fine. I’ve had worse wake-up calls.”

At his words, Bumblebee’s arms tightened around him, before he withdrew entirely. Sam glanced over his shoulder, frowning as realization dawned on him.

“Did I hit you?”

“You did. Nice right hook.” Bumblebee replied, lips twitching precariously.

Sam huffed at him in exasperation, “Not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but before he could quip back, Ratchet reached forward to grasp his arm. With exaggerated gentleness, the medic turned his wrist over, examining the cannula on the back of his hand. Sam followed his gaze, grimacing as he realized that blood had spiderwebbed beneath the tape affixing the IV. He must have struck it while he struggled.

“I’ll re-bandage that.” Ratchet said briskly, before walking across the medical bay. He returned in short order, carrying a tray of supplies. A moment later, his holoform flickered to life beside him, and Sam surrendered his arm without complaint. He watched curiously as Ratchet peeled away the tape, staunching the sluggish bleeding with gauze. When the white cotton came away clean, he sterilized the apparatus and re-affixed it to the back of his hand. After he had finished, and the end result met with his satisfaction, Ratchet glanced back towards him.

“Can you eat?”

Sam shrugged, “Yeah, sure.”

Ratchet made an approving noise, “I’ve ordered a tray for you. It will be here shortly.”

The medic turned, walking across the medical bay to his workbench, where he proceeded to work on a complicated looking piece of equipment. Sam watched him curiously for a moment, before glancing back at Bumblebee’s holoform. He lay beside Sam on the gurney, propped up on one elbow, watching him with a quiet expression on his face.

Sam smiled fondly, reaching out to card his fingers through Bee’s short, sandy hair. The strands were soft, although stiffer than human hair might be, but otherwise indistinguishable from the real thing. Sam dropped his hand to trace Bee’s jawline, ghosting his thumb over the holoform’s bottom lip. An indefinable emotion gripped him, lodging itself deep in his chest, and Sam leaned down to brush a soft kiss against Bumblebee’s mouth. He felt his bonded’s lips curve in a smile before the holoform kissed him back. It was a gentle press, chaste and affectionate, before he pulled back far enough to murmur, “What brought this on?”

“I have no idea.” Sam laughed lightly, “I guess the fact that you know how to take a punch is a turn-on.”

Bumblebee chuckled, but before he could reply, a familiar voice called out across the hangar.

“Look at you two! You are just _adorable_.”

Sam glanced across the room, his entire face lighting up with a genuine smile as he saw Hot Rod walking towards them.

“Roddy!” He said with a laugh, “What are you doing here?”

“I come bearing gifts!” He replied, stopping in front of the berth before extending a servo towards him. He glanced down, surprised to see a cafeteria tray in his palm. Sam’s lips twitched as he reached forward to retrieve the tray.

“Thanks man.” He said sincerely as he placed the tray on his overbed table, “How’d you get to the mess? Did you develop a holoform?”

Hot Rod shook his head good-naturedly, “Nope. I got my very own human.”

Sam’s eyebrow quirked up, “Oh?”

“Prime assigned Robin Williams to the Elite Guard.” Bumblebee said dryly, “Kup partnered him with Roddy, probably hoping that some of Williams’ work ethic would rub off on him.”

Hot Rod shrugged at the holoform good-naturedly, before glancing over at him.

“How’re you feeling, Sam my man?”

Sam could hear the concern hidden behind Roddy’s cheerful manner as plain as day. Although he knew that his friend was worried about him, something about the cavalier’s tone rankled for reasons that he could not explain. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable.

“I’m fine, thanks Roddy.” He replied after a moment.

If Hot Rod noticed the tension in Sam’s voice, he didn’t let it show in his expression.

“Glad to hear it. Oh, Cliffjumper sends his regards. I mean, he literally said ‘tell him I send my regards’.” Hot Rod said, before shaking his helm minutely, “I think it was the most that I have ever seen him emote. He’s not usually so effusive.”

Sam rolled his eyes, huffing a laugh. Cliffjumper’s stoic nature was often the target of Hot Rod’s teasing. The smell of something mouth-watering caught his attention and he glanced towards the tray. Upon inspection, Sam saw that beef stew with dumplings was on the menu tonight. He picked up a spoon, pulling the overbed table towards him.

“Well, I’ll let you eat.” Hot Rod said, before his voice turned cheerful, “Duty calls. Knock Out’s not going to guard himself.”

He distantly noticed Bumblebee stiffen in the periphery of his vision, but Sam’s attention focused solely on the cavalier.

“Knock Out’s in the brig?” Sam asked sharply.

Confusion flickered across Roddy’s face, “Of course. Where else would he be?”

Anger flared through him, hot and sharp, and he narrowed his eyes. Immediately, he felt Ratchet’s scrutiny across their bond.

“He saved my life.” Sam snapped, “How long does Optimus plan on keeping him there?”

Hot Rod glanced at Bumblebee uncertainly, a moment before his expression turned grim. All at once, Sam realized that they were speaking to one another on a private channel.

“Do you two have something to share with the class?” He hissed, turning to glare at his guardian.

“Sam.” Ratchet reproved as he approached, “Knock Out has been confined to the brig until he is willing to swear his loyalty, something that he is as yet unwilling to do.”

Sam felt an angry flush spread across his face, “What about the others?”

Ratchet crossed his arms as he stopped a short distance away, “Ambulon and Deadlock have already sworn their fealty to Prime. They’ve both changed paint and accepted the Autobot emblem. Deadlock has gone so far as to take a new designation—he’s going by Drift now.”

“I want to see him.” Sam said, making to push the overbed table aside, “I know I can talk some sense into him.”

At once, Ratchet’s holoform flickered into existence by his bedside. The grizzled medic reached out one hand to press against Sam’s chest, the other reaching forward to pull the overbed table back towards him.

“What you want and what you need are, evidentially, two very different things.” Ratchet said gruffly, “You are going to eat your meal, and then you will get some rest.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the holoform, infuriated by his tone, “Take your hand off me.”

Ratchet’s expression became closed off, but he withdrew his hand without comment. A moment later, the medic’s mental presence disappeared behind heavy blocks.

“You can’t keep me here, Ratchet.” Sam said lowly, “I am not a _prisoner_.”

“You are not a prisoner, you are my patient,” Ratchet replied, his voice tight, “and you are in no condition to leave.”

Hot Rod watched their exchange in silence, his troubled expression deepening with each passing moment. Before Sam could reply, he felt Bumblebee’s presence brush against his mind. The concern and anguish in the simple touch pulled Sam up short, and he glanced back towards the holoform. Although Bumblebee’s face was carefully composed, betraying nothing of his emotions, Sam could tell that he was stricken.

Guilt and shame slammed into him with the force of a wrecking ball, obliterating his anger in an instant. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, his cheeks burning.

“Hot Rod, thank-you for coming.” Ratchet said, a clear dismissal if Sam had ever heard one. The cavalier whistled at him softly in acknowledgement.

“It was good to see you, Sam.” Roddy said, although his voice was strained. Sam nodded faintly, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at his friend. Hot Rod stepped away, making his way across the hangar and out of the medical bay. The silence in the wake of his departure was deafening.

“Ratchet, I’m sorry. That was rude.” Sam murmured softly.

“It was.” The medic agreed, and Sam flinched at his clipped tone, “Eat your meal.”

His holoform disappeared as Ratchet crossed the room to stand at his workbench. It took a long time before Sam was able to pick up the spoon to comply with the medic’s instructions. Bumblebee brushed against his mind, supportive and reassuring, but it only made Sam feel worse. He ate slowly, methodically, as he stared at the bowl in front of him. As soon as he finished, he set the spoon down, pushed aside the overbed table, and laid back against the mattress. He rolled onto his side, facing away from Bumblebee’s holoform, as he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.

The holoform settled down behind him, cautiously draping his arm across Sam’s waist. When Sam didn’t protest or pull away, Bee shifted forward until his chest pressed against his back.

 _//He isn’t angry at you.//_ Bumblebee reassured him softly, _//He’s angry at the situation.//_

Sam didn’t reply. He found that he had nothing to say.

* * *

Sam’s guilty conscience persisted long after Ratchet’s cold demeanor had thawed out. By the following morning, the medic was back to his usual self, bustling around the hangar as he worked. Sam was quiet and taciturn, avoiding Bumblebee’s attempts to draw him into conversation. He ate when Ratchet told him to eat and he submitted to the medic’s scans without protest. Sam became aware of the other’s quiet scrutiny around noon, and by that evening, Ratchet had instructed him to stretch his legs until he was ready to go to sleep.

An hour later, Sam found himself wandering mindlessly through North Quad, with Bumblebee’s holoform by his side. His guardian had been endlessly patient with him all day, neither pushing in nor allowing himself to be deterred by Sam’s aloofness. As they turned down the hall towards the residences, Sam hesitated.

“Do I still have my apartment?”

Bumblebee looked at him in surprise.

“Of course. Your apartment is just as you left it.”

Sam felt a sharp sense of longing, “Can I see it?”

“Certainly.” Bumblebee said, his expression softening, “Let’s go.”

They walked together through the officer’s section, arriving a short while later at Sam’s apartment. Bumblebee unlocked the door, before pushing it open. Sam stepped into the room, turning to flick the switch by the entryway. Warm light flooded the apartment, illuminating the familiar space. Bumblebee had been right—everything was just as he had left it that afternoon. He slowly walked across his living room, running his fingers over the back of the sofa.

“I spent a lot of time here.” Bumblebee said, glancing around the room, “While you were gone.”

Sam looked at Bumblebee in surprise. It was the first time that his guardian had talked about his experiences during Sam’s captivity.

“I felt closer to you, being here.” Bee continued, walking towards him, “It made things marginally more bearable.”

The holoform’s raw tone cut Sam to his core. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t the only one who had suffered for the last two years. Sam stepped forward, reaching out a hand to brush their fingertips together. Bee glanced down, something unfathomable and intense in his expression.

“I was never not thinking about you.” Sam said softly, “Not even when things were at their worst.”

Bumblebee glanced at him, hesitating, before he said, “I’m sorry that I left you.”

Sam flinched. The words settled over him as though they had physical weight.

“It’s not your fault.” He replied at last.

Bumblebee keened softly, pitching forward to press their foreheads together. His hands came up to cup Sam’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. Sam felt their bond shiver before it blossomed to life in his mind. At once, he was aware of the depths of Bumblebee’s emotions—grief, guilt, remorse, and rage, all twisted up together. The intensity of it took Sam’s breath away.

He reached forward, brushing against Bumblebee’s mental presence, as he pressed deeper into their bond-space. The winter-white glow of Bee’s signature surrounded him, warm and familiar.

 _It’s not your fault._ He repeated softly. His sincerity was unmistakable with their minds so closely intertwined together.

Bee’s grip on Sam’s face tightened minutely as he tilted his head upwards. The holoform stared at him for a long moment, his expression a maelstrom of emotion, before learning forward and pressing their lips together. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, as though he were waiting to see whether Sam would balk or pull away. Sam smiled against him, a faint quirk of his lips, before kissing him back. Bumblebee made a soft sound, low in his throat, before walking them backwards until the couch pressed against Sam’s hips. As he collided with the sofa, Bumblebee began planting gentle, benedictory kisses across Sam’s cheeks, nose, and throat. Sam huffed a soft laugh, bringing his hands up to card through the holoform’s short hair. Seemingly encouraged by Sam’s reaction, Bumblebee trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses up Sam’s jaw to nuzzle into the flesh below his ear. As he sucked at the sensitive spot, Bumblebee rolled his hips against him. 

Sam’s eyes flew open in surprise.

“Are you serious right now?” He gasped.

Bumblebee pulled back slightly, his expression earnest and searching.

“Do you object?”

Sam didn’t have to ponder his response. He could feel Bumblebee’s need for closeness, for reassurance—it was a perfect mirror to the hallow feeling in Sam’s own chest.

” _Fuck_ no. I’m traumatized, not dead.”

Bumblebee’s eyes warmed with amusement, his lip quirking mischievously.

“Then let me do this for you.” He murmured, palming Sam’s growing erection through his jeans. Sam exhaled a shaky breath, nodding his consent. 

“Yeah, alright. Sure.”

The warmth in Bumblebee’s eyes deepened momentarily, before his eyebrows knit together in determination. He kissed Sam’s neck gently, almost chastely, before lowering to his knees in front of him. Sam’s eyebrows flew to his hairline as the scout reached out, unfastening his jeans and sliding his pants down over his hips. Sam barely had a moment to stare in surprised disbelief, before Bumblebee wrapped his fingers around his aching length and took the head of Sam’s cock in his mouth.

Sam moaned loudly, forced to grab the back of the couch with both hands to steady himself. Bumblebee swirled his tongue over the head of Sam’s cock, lapping at the pre-cum that had gathered there. Sam’s breath came in sharp, shallow pants as Bumblebee began to work him—one hand pumping his dick as he explored the glans with lips and tongue. It quickly became evident that Bumblebee was experimenting, watching Sam with razor-sharp focus to assess his reactions. He sucked lightly at the head of his cock, before taking him into his mouth. Sam only just managed to draw a ragged breath before Bumblebee swallowed him down.

Sam choked out another moan, the muscles in his abdomen tightening pleasurably as Bumblebee’s tongue laved at his length. It was hot and wet and _so fucking perfect_. Bumblebee hummed in amusement, and the sensation almost undid him. He cried out sharply, jerking his hips forward instinctively. Bumblebee’s hands flew to his waist, pushing him back against the couch with an iron grip.

“Oh my god, please do that again.” Sam begged shamelessly.

Bumblebee obliged him, humming lightly as he began to suck enthusiastically. Sam’s breath stuttered out of him, his hips twitching helplessly in Bee’s grasp, as his guardian bobbed against him. All at once, Sam felt Bumblebee’s mental presence shift forward—

“No.” Sam gasped, his eyes flying open, “Not that.”

He was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s surprise—knew that he was taken aback by Sam’s refusal to share his charge—but his guardian didn’t dwell on it for long. He bent himself to task, swallowing Sam back down as he pressed a thumb firmly into the flesh behind his balls. The shock of pleasure at the unfamiliar sensation was intense and unexpected. Sam didn’t even have the chance to whimper a warning before he was coming with a choked scream. He could feel Bumblebee swallowing around him, his mouth coaxing the shudders of pleasure out of him. When the scout finally pulled away, he sat back on his heels with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Sam moaned softly as he slid to the floor beside him. Bumblebee’s expression turned fond, before he learned forward and kissed him deeply. Sam flinched slightly at the taste of himself in Bee’s mouth, salty and bitter.

“Sorry about that.” Sam rasped at last. His voice was wrecked.

Bumblebee tilted his head in surprise, “For what?”

He gestured to himself vaguely, “I should have given you a heads-up.”

Bee’s smirk returned, turning sharp and predatory.

“I was inside your mind, Sam. I knew.” He said, his tone salacious, “I wanted every bit of you.”

Sam groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Bumblebee, that’s the filthiest thing that you’ve ever said to me.”

“We’re just getting started.” Bumblebee promised. Sam groaned again, lifting his hips to pull up his clothes. They sat there like that, curled together at the base of the couch, for an indeterminate time. It was quiet and companionable, and before long, Sam felt himself nodding off. The second time that he jerked awake, he huffed a reluctant sigh.

“We should probably get back.”

Bumblebee hummed in agreement as he stood. He reached down, helping Sam to his feet, before glancing around the apartment.

“Is there anything you want to bring? Books? A tablet?”

“Let me use the bathroom and I’ll take a look around.” Sam replied. He straightened his shirt as he walked into the bedroom, trying to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles. He vaguely considered finding a change of clothing, before deciding against it. All of the clothes in his closet would be too large for him now. Sam stepped into the bathroom, snapping on the light, before he froze.

The reflection in the mirror was a stranger. His hair was long, far longer than he’d ever worn it, curling at the base of his neck. His beard was thick and full, startlingly dark against his skin, which was unnaturally pale. Despite his beard, the gauntness of his face was painfully obvious, with sharp cheekbones jutting over hallowed cheeks. Sam forced himself to look up, making eye contact with his reflection. The circles under his eyes were dark, so pronounced that they looked like bruises.

Sam was distantly aware of the way that his heart was thundering in his chest, his breath coming fast and shallow, but he couldn’t look away. The person in the mirror was not the same person who had left this room two years ago—whoever had come back from the _Nemesis_ was someone else entirely.

“Sam?” Bumblebee called from the living room, voice pitched with concern.

He barked a harsh laugh. Was he? He wasn’t sure anymore.

At the sight of the stranger in the mirror smiling morbidly, something in him snapped. He reared back a fist, driving it into the glass in front of him. He took enormous satisfaction at the look of pained surprise on the other’s face as the mirror shattered. Glass cascaded to the counter, tinkling over the porcelain. He pulled back his fist again and again, lost in the red haze of unfettered rage—

“ _Sam!”_

Sam startled in surprise, coming back to himself abruptly. He turned towards the voice, confused to see Ratchet’s holoform standing a short distance away. The grizzled medic was tense, his expression closed off and inscrutable. Behind him, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, was Bumblebee. His guardian was openly upset, his face stricken.

“Sam, please give that to me.” Ratchet ordered, his voice calm and controlled. The medic had extended his hand toward him, as though in expectation. Sam frowned, following Rachet’s gaze down to his side. It was only then that he realized that he was clutching a broken piece of mirror, the jagged glass cutting deeply into his flesh. Blood streamed down his fingers, dripping to puddle on the tiled floor at his feet. Sam glanced up in confusion, before his eyes widened in shocked disbelief. The mirror was destroyed, broken glass covering the countertop and sink. There was blood everywhere—splattered over porcelain and tile and brass. The smell of it was heavy in the air.

”Sam.” Ratchet prompted sharply.

He looked back towards the holoform, shakily extending his hand towards him. Ratchet carefully removed the glass from his numb fingers, tossing it into the bathtub, before stepping towards him. The medic yanked the towel off its ring set in the wall, wrapping it tightly around Sam’s hand.

Sam didn’t feel a thing.

Ratchet said something to Bumblebee, who stepped forward to hook an arm around Sam’s shoulders. Together, the medic and the scout led him out of the apartment, leaving the evidence of his mental break scattered all over the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are so interested, here is the [map of Diego Garcia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diego_Garcia#/media/File:CIA-DG-BIOT.jpg) I use in my writing. Sam was attacked by Thundercracker and Skywarp at Barton Point, and he was captured by Megatron on the part of the map in the south that reads "thickly wooded".
> 
> Also, here is a [map of the Downtown area](https://www.navymwrdiegogarcia.com/modules/media/?do=thumb&id=ba0f5c69-b792-4b79-b986-5f85c0894e58) that shows Medical/Dental and the dining facility.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to thank every single person who commented last chapter. Not just because your feedback was kind and supportive, which it was, but also because you gave me the support that I needed when I was feeling a bit down. Thank-you.
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** \- This is 60% pure angst and 40% fluff. You have been warned.

They walked together in silence, making their way through the North Quad towards the bridge. Ratchet held the towel tightly against Sam’s injured hand, applying pressure while also keeping his arm elevated. The medic’s expression was a study in professional control, his presence inscrutable across their bond. Bumblebee’s presence was far less collected, conflicted as it was with guilt and concern. He rubbed gentle circles into the flesh of Sam’s neck as they walked, as though trying to settle him.

The only sound that accompanied their tense procession was the ringing of their shoes against polished concrete and Sam’s ragged breathing.

As they drew closer to the bridge, the amount of pedestrian traffic steadily increased. Sam stared resolutely at the floor, trying not to flinch under the curious glances that were directed their way. As they turned the corner towards the North Quad entrance, two Marine Corps officers approached from the opposite direction. As the two men drew nearer, each assumed an expression of concerned surprise.

“Sir,” The man on the left greeted, snapping off a crisp salute, “Is everything alright?”

Sam was distantly aware, through the fog that had shrouded his mind, that the man had directed his question towards Ratchet. He knew that the fact should have embarrassed him, angered him even, but instead he just felt exhausted.

“Yes, thank-you Horowitz.” Ratchet replied briskly as they walked by the two men. Sam could feel the weight of their scrutiny, of their shock, at the state of him. As they continued towards the bridge, Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. It seemed that they did not recognize him either.

Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, Ratchet’s mental presence brushed it away. The gesture was quick and competent, and as the thought disappeared, so too did the surge of self-loathing that had accompanied it. Sam sighed softly, his eyes fluttering shut in acceptance. For once, he did not object to Ratchet tampering with his mind.

By the time that they had stepped onto the bridge, the pain of Sam’s injuries had begun to make itself felt. His hand was throbbing, a burning agony that intensified with every beat of his heart. Ratchet helped Sam climb into his waiting alt mode, guiding him to sit on the gurney in the center of the cabin. Bumblebee’s holoform appeared on the bench across from him, his forearms resting on his knees, with his hands clasped loosely together.

Sam was shivering in earnest now, shaking from head to toe. The force of his trembling caused his teeth to chatter together. As the doors of Ratchet’s cabin snapped closed, the medic pulled a thick, yellow blanket from one of the compartments on the wall. He draped the fabric across Sam’s back and drew it over his shoulders.

Sam looked from the blanket to Ratchet, confusion furrowing his brow.

“I’m n-not c-cold.” He said softly, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“I know you’re not.” Ratchet replied matter-of-factly, “You’re in shock.”

Sam stared at the holoform for a long moment, before raising his good hand to clasp the edges of the blanket together. That made sense, he decided. He certainly felt shocked.

Ratchet’s holoform crouched down in front of him, re-applying pressure to the towel that bound his hand. The action caused pain to lance up his arm, and Sam grimaced in response. The medic glanced up at him immediately, eyes flitting across Sam’s face, before he brushed across his mind. The touch was soothing, warm and familiar, and Sam knew a pang of remorse. They had waited for him for two years—had worried and searched and hoped—only to find him broken, after all that time. 

“You’re not broken, Sam.” Ratchet said sternly, reaching out to grasp Sam’s chin so that he was forced to meet the medic’s eyes, “Damaged, perhaps, but not broken. You’re still you, where it counts.”

Ratchet’s gaze bore into him, steel-blue eyes meeting hazel-brown. The _sincerity_ that he saw there, reflected by the medic’s mental presence, was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, as his throat closed up with emotion. He wasn’t so sure whether he was that person anymore.

“Whether you’re that Sam or this Sam doesn’t matter.” Ratchet said, “You’re still our Sam.”

Sam did not reply, could not reply, around the lump in his throat. He nodded faintly, allowing himself to believe Ratchet’s words, if only for a little while. He distantly became aware of the feeling of motion, and he realized in surprise that they were driving. He hadn’t even heard the engine turn over. He sat there for a long moment, shivering despite the warmth of the shock blanket, before he licked his lips.

“Ratchet, I didn’t—“ He began, hesitantly.

“I know you didn’t, Sam.” The medic assured him gruffly, “It’s alright.”

Sam lapsed back into silence, letting his eyes fall closed. Ratchet’s mental presence was unwavering, like a calm harbor in a storm, and he was grateful for it.

“Brace yourself.” Ratchet warned, and his tone made Sam open his eyes in confusion. A moment later, both his holoform and Bumblebee’s holoform disappeared, and the cabin exploded into motion. Metal panels angled out around him, sliding over one another with seamless grace. The gurney folded almost in half, pressing Sam’s knees close to his chest, before it broke apart and joined with the metal surrounding him. In just a few seconds, Sam found himself sitting in Ratchet’s large servo as the medic finished transforming.

A flicker of wry amusement made itself felt through the fog of his apathy.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort as he settled Sam on the edge of the berth. Sam stepped forward, grasping the heavy rail of the bed with his good hand, before climbing up onto the mattress. Bumblebee’s holoform was there in an instant, reaching out a hand to steady him. Sam smiled wanly at his guardian.

“Thanks, Bee.” He murmured.

Ratchet helped Sam scoot into the center of the bed, before he pulled the overbed table closer. Sam could see that there was a large assortment of medical supplies already prepared for him.

“Alright, Sam. Let me take a look at you.” Ratchet said. Sam let himself be maneuvered without protest, pulling the yellow blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Ratchet carefully unwrapped the towel, which was soaked with blood. Sam could see that his hand was heavily lacerated, with numerous nicks and cuts along his fingers and knuckles. Several lacerations were shockingly deep—one was along his pointer finger, from nailbed to knuckle, while another split the flesh between two knuckles so deeply that Sam could see bone.

At the grisly sight, Sam’s stomach twisted and his mouth flooded with saliva. Ratchet looked up sharply, immediately grabbing a kidney dish and pushing it towards him. Sam only just managed to take it from him before he threw up. His entire body heaved with the force of it, his wet retching loud in the silence of the medical bay. It took a long while for his stomach to settle down—when at last he stopped gagging, Ratchet took the kidney dish away. Bumblebee was there then, hands smoothing up and down Sam’s back, as he murmured at him in Cybertronian. His voice was soft and sincere, washing over him like a metronome. 

When Ratchet returned, he handed Sam another kidney dish. 

“Sorry.” Sam rasped, accepting the plastic basin, “I’m not usually squeamish.”

“That’s alright.” Ratchet said, “I’m going to clean the glass out of your wounds and then start suturing. I would prefer to administer an analgesic before I begin.”

Sam glanced up at him in confusion, before he realized that the medic was asking for his permission.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Ratchet nodded, picking up a long, thin syringe filled with a cloudy liquid. He pushed up the sleeve of Sam’s shirt, swabbing the crook of his arm, before sliding the bevel into the vein. As the holoform depressed the plunger, Sam could feel the medication working its way up his arm, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake. Ratchet set the needle aside, gesturing for Sam to lay back against the mattress. The medic spread a sterile pad on the gurney beside him, before arranging his tools to his liking and retrieving a pair of medical-grade tweezers.

The holoform glanced in his direction, meeting his wide-eyed stare. Something softened on Ratchet’s face, and he reached out a hand to clasp Sam’s chin. With gentle pressure, he turned his head to the side, until Sam was unable to see his injuries. He understood at once that Ratchet didn’t want him to watch.

“I’ll talk you through it.” Ratchet promised in his usual gruff manner, “Let me know if your nausea returns.”

He nodded faintly, and then the medic began to work. True to his word, Ratchet described each step of what he was doing with an air of clinical professionalism. Other than Ratchet’s voice, the only other noise in the hangar was the clink of metal on metal and the soft rustle of fabric. Despite the extent of his injuries, Sam felt no pain—only an occasional feeling of wetness or a firm tugging sensation. The whole while, Bumblebee stood by his side, his fingers carding through his hair. Sam sighed softly, pressing into the familiar touch. It was not long before his eyes started to droop, exhaustion and pain medication combining to blur the edges of his consciousness.

“Lift up, Sam.” Ratchet instructed, cutting through the comfortable fog of endorphins and hydrocodone that had enveloped him. Sam blinked his eyes open, surprised to see that his right hand was heavily bandaged and all of the medical supplies had been cleaned away. It took him a minute to realize that he must have fallen asleep.

“Come on.” Ratchet prompted again, although there was no impatience in his voice, “You can go back to sleep in a moment.”

Sam realized that the medic was trying to help him out of his clothes. With a grunt, Sam lifted his hips off the mattress, allowing Ratchet to pull off his jeans. The medic folded his pants, tossing them onto the foot of the bed, before pulling the blankets up to Sam’s chest. Sam glanced to the side, noticing all at once that Bumblebee’s holoform was gone. The realization sent a spear of anxiety through him in an instant.

“I sent him to recharge.” Ratchet said, answering Sam’s unspoken thoughts, “He was long overdue.”

Sam frowned faintly before turning his attention inwards. The familiar warmth of their bond-space was still present, but it was muted and tranquil. As soon as he realized that he wasn’t separated from Bumblebee, the anxious knot in his stomach began to slowly relax.

He wasn’t alone, not anymore.

As his anxiety ebbed away, he became aware of the weight of Ratchet’s regard. He turned his head, glancing up at the holoform in confusion. He stood a short distance away, his expression inscrutable, as he stared down at Sam. The intensity of his expression made Sam shift uncertainly, but before he could say anything, the mental blocks that separated them fell away. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise as the full weight of Ratchet’s mental presence filled his mind. The undulating glow was the same as it ever was—ancient and beautiful—but it was tinged with something else.

Regret.

 _//I am sorry, Sam. I did not realize the extent that my reticence would affect you.//_ Ratchet murmured.

The medic’s words did nothing to assuage his confusion. Sam frowned faintly, opening his mouth to ask for clarification, when Ratchet pulled his mental presence towards him. He suddenly found himself tucked closely against the medic’s spark—it was a sensation that Sam had not felt since he had first on-lined, floating in the darkness of stasis. It was comfort and reassurance and affection, all at once. Sam didn’t realize that he was crying until Ratchet gathered him in his arms. The medic hugged him close, bringing one hand to clasp the back of Sam’s head. His fingers gripped him tightly, brushing against his scalp. It was a tender gesture, one of unwavering support.

It was, Sam realized all at once, the way that a father would hug a son.

He raised his arms, wrapping them around the holoform’s midsection, hugging him back. They stayed like that for an interminable time, neither of them speaking but both fully aware of what the other was feeling, before Ratchet pulled away slightly.

“You should really get some rest.” He said gruffly, as though in apology.

Sam smiled faintly, his tears long since abated, “Yeah, sure.”

Ratchet squeezed his shoulders, before helping him to lie back against the mattress. The holoform rearranged the blankets, tucking them around his body, and then he moved the overbed table aside. Sam watched him with half-lidded eyes, contemplative and quiet. When Ratchet had finished, he glanced towards him.

“Do you need anything?”

Sam shook his head minutely, “No, I’m good. Thanks Ratch.”

The holoform stilled at the familiar epithet, his expression doing something complicated, before he nodded curtly. A moment later, the holoform flickered and disappeared. Sam could hear Ratchet moving around the medical bay a short distance away, and then the overhead lights dimmed to their lowest setting. Sam sighed softly, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders as he rolled onto his side. It was no time at all before Sam felt himself drifting off, warm and comfortable in that full-bodied way that only narcotics could achieve.

His last thought before he slipped under was that he felt peaceful, for perhaps the first time in over two years.

* * *

Sam slept deeply, completely undisturbed by the comings and goings of the medical bay. Although he dreamed vividly, never once did those dreams turn ugly. As a result, when Sam finally awoke, it was because he was well and truly rested.

He shifted against the mattress, surfacing slowly. Although he was warm, it was far to say that he was comfortable. His hand burned painfully, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sam squinted his eyes open, blinking blearily in the bright light of the medical bay. He could hear someone bustling around behind him, but when he reached instinctively for Ratchet’s presence, he was surprised to find that their bond-space was quiet and still. Confused, although not yet alarmed, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Good afternoon, Sam!” First Aid chirped merrily, “How did you sleep?”

Sam scrubbed his good hand over his mouth, surprised to see that an IV had been placed while he slept. He looked from the cannula taped to the back of his hand to First Aid, a question written all over his face.

“Ah, yes, I see.” The medic said as he approached, “Your potassium and magnesium dropped while you slept, likely as a result of purging your fuel tanks. Ratchet placed the intravenous line to rehydrate you.”

“Uh, okay.” Sam said, squinting at the medic, “Where is he?”

“He is in re-charge, by orders of our Prime.”

Sam huffed a soft laugh, “I can’t imagine that went over well.”

“Oh, no. No, it did not,” First Aid agreed cheerfully, “but Prime was insistent. Ratchet asked me to watch over you, in case you woke up before he completed his cycle.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Approximately eleven hours, fourteen minutes, thirty seconds.” He replied, “It is just after noon, local time.”

Genuine amusement quirked the corner of Sam’s lips, “Can’t you be any more precise?”

First Aid worried his servos together, chirping contritely, “No, I am sorry, but I cannot.”

“I was joking.” Sam said reassuringly, “Don’t mind me.”

“Ah, yes. I see. Your bonded has explained that you are prone to good-natured teasing.”

There was something about his tone, which was friendly and accepting, that warmed Sam to his core. He liked the Autobot instantly, in a way that had only been true of Bumblebee and Wheeljack.

“How do you feel?” First Aid asked. Before he could reply, a soft, blue light emanated from a sensor set into the medic’s optics, sweeping Sam from head to toe.

Sam’s lips thinned in a grimace, “I’ve felt better. My hand hurts and my mouth tastes terrible.”

“Well, I can certainly help with the former.” First Aid said, reaching out his digits to gingerly grasp Sam’s wrist. A small, metallic syringe folded out of his servo, sliding into the cannula taped to the back of Sam’s hand in a strangely serpentine fashion. There was a soft _snap-hiss_ , and then Sam could feel the medication working its way through his veins. The medic placed his hand back on his lap with the same care that an auctioneer would use to handle a Ming vase.

“Thanks.” Sam said softly.

“You’re welcome, Sam.” First Aid replied, “You should refuel. Do you need to void your bladder or your bowels first?”

Sam openly winced at the medic’s phrasing, but his physical needs prompted him to reply, “Yeah, I do.”

First Aid nodded his head understandingly, before disconnecting the IV and helping Sam climb off the gurney. He waited, patient as a saint, as Sam awkwardly pulled on his jeans—a challenging feat with his right hand heavily bandaged as it was. Sam didn’t bother with his shoes, well aware that he would be coming right back to bed. Instead, he stepped onto First Aid’s proffered servo without another word. The red and white medic strode across the hangar, humming quietly to himself, before depositing Sam in front of the bathroom door.

Sam took his time in the privacy of the washroom. First, he brushed his teeth and then he used the toilet. After he finished, he glanced at the shower in contemplation. He was sweaty and grimy, but he was unsure whether he was allowed to get his bandages wet. Sam frowned faintly in consternation, before he felt the brush of an unfamiliar presence across his mind. He startled in surprise, a full-bodied jerk that made his heart leap into his throat.

 _//My apologies, Sam. I did not mean to alarm you.//_ First Aid said contritely, _//You may shower if you wish. I must change your bandages either way.//_

Sam’s eyebrows flew to his hairline in disbelief. He turned his attention inwards to find that he was still wrapped securely within the Creator bond.

_//Ratchet has given me the means of monitoring you. Perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier.//_

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. _Of course he did._

Without another word to First Aid, Sam shucked his clothes and stepped into the shower. He turned the gauge to high, standing under the blistering stream of water for a long while. He let the heat soak into the muscles of his back, his mind drifting thoughtlessly. It was only after he felt a swell of concern from the medic that he grudgingly turned down the heat and got to washing himself. As he scrubbed his nails over his scalp, he made the decision to get a haircut as soon as possible. That afternoon, preferably.

Eventually, Sam got out of the shower. The process of dying off and getting dressed was just as clumsy and awkward as he had expected. By the time that he opened the door, toweling dry his hair, his stomach had started to pang. All thoughts of lunch disappeared, however, as he stepped out of the bathroom to see Optimus Prime standing in the medical bay. The sight of the Autobot leader rocked Sam to his core. He was blindsided by the swell of his conflicting emotions—happiness and anger, appreciation and resentment, comfort and shame. The force of it took his breath away.

Optimus’ optics were impossibly bright, his entire countenance one of stoic calm.

“Hello Sam.”

Sam flinched at the familiar, rumbling baritone.

“Hello Optimus.”

The Autobot leader lowered to one knee, regarding him with a sort of patient expectation. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly deeply uncomfortable.

“Where’s First Aid?” Sam asked, unable to look him in the optics.

Optimus was silent for a moment, likely well aware that First Aid’s whereabouts was not actually the issue on the forefront of Sam’s mind, before he replied.

“I asked First Aid to attend to your meal preparations. I wished to speak with you in private.”

Sam exhaled softly, feeling a flush spread across his face. He tried desperately to think of something to say, something that would break the mounting tension that he felt between them.

“How are you feeling?” Optimus asked, before Sam could speak. Sam stared at him incredulously for the space a heartbeat, before he gestured vaguely with his bandaged hand.

“Just peachy, Optimus.”

Optimus’ optics flicked to his hand for a nanosecond—so quickly that Sam would have missed it, if he hadn’t been paying close attention—before moving back to Sam’s face.

All at once, Sam felt profoundly, deeply exhausted.

“Look Optimus,” He said, a weary lilt to his words, “Thanks for coming by, but it’s not a good time.”

“On the contrary,” Optimus rumbled, “I believe the time for this discussion is far past due.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe, irritation flashing through him in an instant.

“Well, tough luck.” Sam replied, trying for assertiveness and landing somewhere closer to petulance instead.

“Sam—“ Optimus began, his voice soft and sincere. His tone inflamed something within Sam, who narrowed his eyes in anger.

“Don’t.” He ground out, “Don’t you dare apologize.”

Sam couldn’t bear it, not if he wanted to maintain his composure. He knew that an apology from the Autobot leader, delivered with his usual god-like empathy and understanding, would break something in him.

“You deserve more than an apology, Sam.” Optimus replied, as though Sam had not spoken, “And you certainly deserve better than you’ve received.”

Sam felt himself go cold all over. His temper, frayed and overwrought as it was, reached its breaking point.

“Oh, for fuck sakes!” Sam snapped, rounding on the Autobot leader, “Take the goddamn hint, Optimus. I don’t want to talk about this with you—not now, not ever.”

Optimus did not move, his expression unaffected by the vitriol in Sam’s voice. Sam stared at him, waiting for the quiet acquiescence that Optimus usually displayed in the face of Sam’s temper, but it did not come. After the silence between them had stretched to the length of several moments, Sam narrowed his eyes warningly.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprised disbelief, but the expression was gone a moment later, incinerated by the sudden rage that burned through him.

“Oh, you _sonofabitch_!” Sam screamed at him, “What is your problem, Optimus?”

Optimus did not respond to the abuse that Sam hurled at him. Instead, he stared down at him, composed and silent, as though waiting for him to continue.

Sam was only too happy to oblige him.

“Fine, you want to talk? Let's talk!” He hissed, his face flushed crimson, “If you want to apologize, then I have to know what it is that you’re apologizing for first. Are you sorry for leaving when I told you that the attack on the power plant was a feint? For taking Ratchet and Bumblebee away from me? Or are you sorry that I was at the mercy of that psychopath for two fucking years?”

Sam took a ragged breath, ignoring the way that Optimus’ optics shone with barely restrained emotion as he continued.

“Or maybe it’s you who wants the apology. I can understand that. After all, I disobeyed orders and made Jack leave me in the forest. That was pretty dumb, lesson learned.” Sam’s voice grew harsher, becoming self-deprecating, “Or did you want an apology for what happened on the _Nemesis_? I can’t imagine that your senior officers will be thrilled to learn that I fraternized with the enemy. Not just Knock Out, either. Ravage and Thundercracker and Skywarp too. They were kind to me, and I appreciated it.”

Sam’s voice wavered precariously, but he narrowed his eyes, daring Optimus to contradict him, “Or should I apologize for not fighting harder? I followed Megatron around that ship like a dog, for fuck sakes. I ate with him, and talked with him, and slept by his side. I didn’t even mind the attention after a while—it was better than the alternative.

So is that what you want, Optimus? An apology? Just say something, for fuck sakes!”

Sam realized, too little too late, that his voice had become pained and pleading. Optimus’ optics were fathomless and intense as he reached out a servo to curl around Sam’s thin body.

“No, Sam. That is not what I want.” The Autobot leader intoned softly, sincerity in his every word, “What I want is to protect you from the ramifications of my mistakes—to make it so that you need never suffer the ugliness of what was done to you.”

Optimus paused, his voice deepening to a dark rumble, “Not even I could have foreseen the depths of Megatron’s cruelty.”

He flinched slightly, unable to look up at the Autobot leader. He was uncertain whether Optimus knew the full extent of what Megatron had done to him, but he couldn’t bear to see the pity in the other’s optics if that were the case.

“They aren’t all like him, Optimus. They aren’t all bad.” He murmured instead.

There was a moment of protracted silence, and then the Autobot leader brushed his thumb gently down Sam’s back.

“I know.” Optimus said simply, causing Sam to glance up in surprise. Prime’s expression was sincere—and deeply saddened, “Tell me about them.”

Sam hesitated, unsure what to say. Optimus did not prompt him, letting Sam turn the words over in his mind before he eventually spoke.

“Ravage was with me the most. She’s loyal to Soundwave, but not because of Megatron. She has a dry sense of humor.” Sam said softly, remembering the cyber cat, “She kept me warm, when Megatron left me in the cargo bay.”

Optimus shifted closer, so that the bulk of his frame bracketed Sam’s smaller body. He said nothing, encouraging Sam to continue with his silence.

“Thundercracker is maybe the most human mechanoid I’ve ever met. He’s serious and stern and loyal to his trine—but he’s kind. He brought me candy, to get me to eat, and he tried to stop me from—“

Sam cut himself off, grief and shame twisting his words. He couldn’t say it—couldn’t face Optimus’ disappointment at what he had done. He bit his lip so hard that the taste of blood bloomed in his mouth, metallic and warm. Optimus ex-vented softly, his digits curling tighter around him.

“I know about Blitzwing.” Optimus said gently, “Knock Out has shared his memory files with us.”

Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the Autobot leader’s calm acceptance.

“I didn’t just attack him, Optimus. I tried to kill him.” Sam tried to explain.

“I know.”

Sam’s frown deepened, frustrated by his inability to articulate himself clearly.

“No, you don’t. I _wanted_ to kill him—I would have enjoyed it.”

Optimus ex-vented softly, lowering his helm until it rested gently against the top of Sam’s head.

“I know, Sam. Blitzwing attacked your bonded—he would have inflicted your suffering upon him. Of course you reacted as you did. Any bonded would have done the same.”

Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, his eyes stinging with sudden unshed tears.

“I don’t understand.” He whispered, voice wavering, “I would have murdered him in cold blood. Why aren’t you angry?”

Optimus pulled back slightly, his gaze suddenly intense.

“Megatron told you that I would be angry.” Optimus said, as though in realization.

Sam did not reply. He did not need to.

Something softened in Optimus’ countenance, “I am not angry, Sam. You did what you had to do to protect your bonded. In our society, your actions were sacrosanct—as Megatron well knows.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, confusion and grief and shame and relief twisting in upon one another. Optimus did not press him to continue, instead stroking his digits down the length of Sam’s back. It was a grounding gesture, gentle and calm, but Sam barely felt it over the whirlwind of his thoughts. Abruptly, Sam pulled away in order to look up into Optimus’ optics.

“I want to see Knock Out.”

Optimus shuttered his optics, regarding him in silence for a long moment.

“Knock Out has not renounced the Decepticon cause, Sam. I cannot be certain that he is no longer a threat to you.”

Sam could not keep the look of irritation off his face, “Ripcord swore himself to the Autobot cause and he killed me. The measure of a person is not the emblem soldered to their chassis, Optimus.” 

The Autobot leader stared down at him, the weight of his regard heavy against Sam’s conscience. Eventually, Optimus shuttered his optics, inclining him helm in acquiescence.

“Very well. Let us go together."


	13. Chapter 13

Although Sam was impatient to depart for the _Ark_ immediately, Optimus insisted that they wait until First Aid returned. The Autobot leader extended a servo towards him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sam stepped onto the proffered palm. Digits as thick as his body curled loosely around him as Optimus stood, bringing Sam close to his chest before crossing the large hangar. He stopped in front of the berth—which, Sam realized with a grimace, he had come to think of as ‘his’—before depositing him on his feet.

Sam murmured his thanks, stepping across the metal platform to retrieve his shoes. He climbed up onto the hospital gurney, crossing one leg over his knee to pull on a sneaker. It was a surprisingly difficult feat with only one hand, but he managed it. As he grabbed his other shoe, he glanced up to see Optimus watching him intently. The Autobot leader’s expression was introspective and quiet. All at once, he was desperate to break the silence and ease the tension that had built up between them. 

“So, on a scale of one to torqued off, how mad was Ratchet?”

Optimus’ optics softened faintly, although whether it was in appreciation or amusement, Sam couldn’t guess.

“Ratchet was… resistant, but he eventually saw sense.” Optimus replied, diplomatically.

“Uh-huh.” Sam said dryly, “If I were you, I’d be on the other side of the island when he wakes up.”

Optimus’ optics brightened in response, but before he could speak, First Aid strode through the hangar doors. Both Sam and Optimus turned to regard the red and white medic, who whistled cheerfully to himself as he approached.

“Hello again, Sam. I trust your shower was enjoyable?” The medic asked, before extending a servo towards him, “I have brought your mid-day meal.”

Sam glanced over to see a cafeteria tray balanced on the medic’s servo. He leaned forward, grasping the tray with his good hand and steadying it with the other, as he brought it to rest on the overbed table.

“Thanks First Aid, I appreciate it.”

“It was my pleasure. Now if you will excuse me, I will gather the necessary supplies for your dressing change. _Bon appétit_.”

The medic nodded respectfully to Optimus before he stepped away, striding towards the supply cabinets located against the back wall. He continued to whistle as he walked, swaying his hip struts to the cheerful tune. Sam shook his head in amusement, before turning his attention to the cafeteria tray in front of him. A quick inspection revealed that First Aid had brought him chicken over rice in some type of reddish-orange sauce. He took a tentative bite, and was delighted when mingled sweetness and heat exploded over his tongue.

Sam’s eyes fluttered closed. He _loved_ Szechuan chicken.

Without another word, he pulled the overbed table closer towards him and tucked into his lunch. It was the perfect blend of sweet and spicy, with tender chicken and firm vegetables. Sam speared a piece of sautéed pepper with his fork, glancing up at Optimus with a wry twist in his mouth.

“In terms of the pros and cons of living in the middle of the Indian Ocean, the Asian food is definitely a tick in the pro column.”

The Autobot leader stared at him for a long moment, as though taken aback by Sam’s friendly banter. Eventually, he dipped his helm in acknowledgement.

“I am glad that it meets with your approval.”

“Oh, it does.” Sam agreed, popping the pepper in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the crunch and its accompanying bloom of heat, “I don’t know how you guys can eat the same stuff day in, day out. I’d go crazy.”

“Energon can be refined into many different forms. All but the crudest types are enjoyable.”

Sam stiffened at his words, the smile fading from his face. He dropped his eyes to his plate and began pushing around a piece of chicken with his fork. The silence stretched on, becoming uncomfortable again, but Sam found that he couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat. 

“Sam?” Optimus asked, an edge of concern in his tone.

Sam reached for his water, taking a long drink. When he finally forced himself to speak, his voice was artificially calm, “It’s nothing, Optimus. Megatron showed me what refined energon tastes like. It’s fine.”

It took less than a heartbeat before understanding dawned in Optimus’ optics, “Through the Creator bond.”

Sam lifted his shoulders in a haphazard shrug, “I doubt I’d be alive if he’d done it any other way.”

Optimus’ expression was difficult to read—serious and solemn, but not overtly angry.

“Megatron has always had a fondness for single-grade.” He acknowledged, after a long moment.

Sam stared incredulously at the Autobot leader. His words, as well as the faint rumination in his tone, took Sam completely by surprise. Optimus returned his gaze, unflinchingly.

“If you have a question, Sam, please ask it.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, uncertain whether he wanted the answers to those particular questions. After a pregnant pause, he speared another piece of chicken, affecting his best impression of nonchalance.

“Megatron said that he met you when you were still Orion Pax.” He said lightly, “Is that true?”

Optimus shuttered his optics slowly, before inclining his helm in an affirmative.

“Yes, it is true. We met at a rally in Iacon.”

“For egalitarianism?”

Optimus ex-vented softly.

“Yes. Megatron was a vocal opponent of the caste-system. His ideals were… appealing to me.”

Sam tilted his head, staring unblinkingly up at him.

“How so?”

Optimus stepped closer, crouching so that they were of an almost equal height, “I was a lower-caste data clerk, as you know. My functioning was pre-determined by a hierarchical social system that aggressively controlled who I could be and what I could do.”

The Prime’s optics shuttered briefly, as though in pain.

“Megatron spoke passionately about freedom as the right of all sentient beings—it was a sentiment with which I strongly connected. It is one with which I still do, although Megatron does not.” 

Sam’s breath stuttered out of him in surprise. It was inconceivable that _Megatron_ had ignited in Optimus his relentless passion for liberty and self-determination. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “What happened?”

Optimus shook his helm minutely, a gesture of immeasurable regret.

“In the early vorns of his resistance, before the civil war, Megatron was a passionate and charismatic leader. Innumerable mechanoids were drawn to his ideals of freedom and equality. After he overthrew the Senate, however, something changed within him. He executed the Senators who would not swear fealty to him, before installing himself as Supreme Commander of Cybertron’s armies. Yet he was not satisfied with his newfound power—he wanted more.”

Optimus hesitated, as though choosing his next words carefully, “As you know, the Supreme Commander and the Prime are two sides of Cybertron’s ruling elite. One oversees Cybertron’s armies, the other its political and religious factions. Megatron was not satisfied as only Supreme Commander—he argued that so long as there was a Prime to lead it, the Senate might be re-established, undoing all of the hard work of their rebellion.”

Sam frowned faintly as he set down his fork, the remainder of his meal forgotten. Optimus had explained about the role of a Prime as the figurehead of the Senate, but that was all they were—a figurehead. They had no real authority to establish or abolish a Senate, or to control the election of the Senators therein.

“But that’s not true.” Sam protested, “How’d he manage to spin that?”

Optimus ex-vented softly.

“What is thought to be true is true in its consequences.” He intoned seriously, “Most of the lower- and middle-caste had only a rudimentary understanding of how the Senate was appointed, a fact that Megatron exploited to his advantage.”

Sam exhaled loudly, shaking his head, “I’d say I can’t believe it, but, well, here we are.”

“Here we are.” Optimus agreed, a grim edge to his voice.

Before Sam could reply, he felt a _shift_ in his mind as Bumblebee’s presence brightened across their bond. A smile spread across his face and he reached towards the winter-white glow. As he brushed against it, he was greeted with a swell of _fondness-welcome-inquiry_ that made him huff a quiet laugh.

_//Hello to you too.//_

Optimus straightened from where he stood crouched beside the berth, his expression softening in patient understanding. He stepped a short distance away, giving Sam the illusion of privacy. At the same time, First Aid closed the cabinet doors with more vim than strictly necessary, pivoting on a pede and starting back in their direction.

 _//Did you sleep well?//_ Bumblebee asked, and Sam had the distinct impression of _motion_ and _anticipation_.

 _//Like a baby.//_ He replied, much to Bee’s amusement, _//Optimus is here.//_

His bonded’s presence brightened with _concern_ , and Sam glanced up at Optimus.

_//It went better than I thought, I guess.//_

“Alright, Sam. I am going to change your bandages and re-dress your sutures. Give me your hand, please.”

The red and white mechanoid stood directly beside his berth, holding his servo out expectantly. Confusion furrowed Sam’s brow as he stared at the large appendage.

“Can you even do this without a holoform?”

“Certainly.” First Aid replied, “Ratchet utilizes a holoform for your comfort, not out of necessity.”

Sam huffed quietly, remembering the events that had led up to Ratchet’s development of a holoform. He had been shaken after Egypt, wrung-out and sensitive. At the time, Ratchet’s holoform had seemed like an imposition—a violation, even—but now it was as much a part of him as his bipedal form or his alt mode.

First Aid made a polite, expectant sound, prompting Sam to extend his arm towards him. As he watched, two large digits transformed into an array of spindly looking instruments, which seemingly moved of their own accord. A pair of pincers grasped the edges of the bandages as a minature vibroblade cut straight down the middle, parting the fabric like the Red Sea. It revealed a minefield of nicks and cuts, the deeper of which were sutured with tidy-looking black thread. Sam’s pointer finger and middle finger were held together with a thin metal splint, preventing him from pulling the sutures between his two knuckles.

All and all, it looked painful.

First Aid glanced up at him, his instruments stilling in mid-air, “I have been informed that you have a history of vomiting at the sight of physical injury. Please let me know immediately if you experience any nausea or lightheadedness.”

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, “It was _one time_.”

First Aid chirped at him sympathetically, before bending to his task. The red and white medic dabbed clear ointment over the nicks and cuts—Sam had to school his features to keep from grimacing from the sting—before winding a roll of gauze around his hand, starting at his fingers and ending at his wrist.

“You will only need to keep the bandages on for another twelve hours or so. We can remove them tomorrow morning.”

Sam noticed a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to see Bumblebee’s alt mode roll to a stop at the foot of the berth. He smiled down at the yellow Camaro and, a moment later, Bumblebee’s mental presence bumped against him fondly. Sam’s attention was pulled back to First Aid by a sharp tugging sensation. He glanced down in surprise to see the medic had covered the gauze with a brown compression wrap, which he had proceeded to secure with fasteners.

“There you go, all set.”

Sam brought his hand to rest in his lap, turning to look at Optimus expectantly.

“Can we go now?”

The Autobot leader considered his request, before inclining his helm in an affirmative.

“I have advised Ultra Magnus to expect us.” He rumbled.

“Alright, great. Let’s go.” Sam said impatiently, climbing down off the gurney. At the same moment, he felt an inquiring touch from Bumblebee, and Sam set his jaw stubbornly in response.

_//I’m going to see Knock Out.//_

There was a swell of _sensation_ from his bonded, a complicated mixture of feeling, thought, and imagery that together conveyed a single, coherent message: _are you sure this is a good idea?_

Sam stepped onto Optimus’ proffered servo, steading himself with his good hand. The Autobot leader crouched down, carefully settling him on the floor a short distance away from Bee’s alt mode. Bumblebee helpfully popped his driver’s side door as he approached.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Sam said with certainty, running his hand over Bumblebee’s gleaming exterior.

_//Ratchet isn’t going to like it.//_

Sam huffed quietly. That had been one of Bumblebee’s better understatements.

_//He’ll get over it.//_

Bumblebee whistled at him doubtfully, but his engine turned over all the same. Sam smiled in appreciation before ducking into the familiar cab. As soon as he settled against the driver’s seat, the door pulled shut behind him. Sam could hear the distant sound of transformation, and then he watched as Optimus’ alt mode accelerated towards the hangar doors. A moment later, Bumblebee shifted into drive and followed after him.

Sam leaned back against the supple leather, relaxing into the seat. Everything about the enclosed space was comforting—from the read-outs on the dash, to the faint scent of leather and oil, to the Autobot emblem set into the steering wheel. He never felt more at ease than when he was inside of Bumblebee’s cabin. The thought made him quirk his lips, and he reached out to tweak the curve of the steering wheel between his thumb and forefinger. Bee’s engine growled in response, the speedometer needle jumping into the red.

Sam laughed aloud, delighted.

It seemed like no time at all before Bumblebee slowed to a stop in front of the _Ark_. Optimus transformed into his bi-pedal mode as Bee’s door opened. Sam grasped the doorframe with his good hand and pulled himself out of the cab. He stepped away, giving Bumblebee space to transform, as he glanced around the airfield.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a clear, perfect blue and the sun shone from its zenith. It was hot, given the early afternoon hour, but not oppressively so. The humidity was worse than the heat, but the faint smell of salt water on the air helped to temper the discomfort. The airfield was busy, with soldiers and machinery moving around the large open space. The _Ark_ was just as he remembered it—gleaming golden and elegant, surrounded by crates and equipment. The clang of metal on metal and boisterous talking filled the air, audible over the distant roar of jet engines from the far side of the airfield.

Sam squinted up at Optimus, who was watching him with an intensity of expression that he couldn’t place.

“Can we go in?”

Optimus inclined his helm, before starting towards the large ramp that was lowered from the underbelly of the warship. Sam followed after him, walking as quickly as his shorter legs would allow. Bumblebee walked at his side, matching his pace without comment.

Sam breathed a quiet sigh of relief as they stepped into the cool interior of the ship. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he saw at once that the _Ark_ had changed substantially since he had last seen her. Whereas before the ship had been dark and quiet, as though in a deep sleep, now she shone with light and activity. All of the terminals in the cargo bay were lit up, blinking with complicated Cybertronian read-outs. Halogenic lights illuminated the large space, set into the ceiling of the hangar. The whorls and eddies that were etched into the metal walls glowed a faint blue-silver, fully revealing their complicated, delicate patterns. The design covered the walls, wrapping around the hangar and stretching down the distant corridor.

It was ethereal and alien—and unquestionably _beautiful_.

Sam felt an immense swell of satisfaction at the thought. _Megatron would absolutely hate it._

Bumblebee whistled at him questioningly, and Sam glanced up at his bonded in response.

“Megatron isn’t a big fan of interior design.” He said, by way of explanation. He could tell from the confused tilt of Bumblebee’s head that his answer had not cleared up the scout’s confusion, but Sam did not feel like clarifying any further. He followed after Optimus as the Autobot leader made his way into the depths of the ship. They passed dozens of technicians, electricians, and engineers as they walked, clearly identifiable by the insignia on their shoulders. They worked in groups of two and three at various junctions of the corridor, some wrist-deep in wiring while others bent over the bright blue flame of butane torches.

Sam glanced up at Optimus, curiously.

“You’re really putting a lot of work into her.”

Optimus glanced over his shoulder in Sam’s direction, something complicated in his expression.

“We have worked on the _Ark_ around the clock for the last two years. I wanted her air-worthy and battle ready as soon as feasibly possible.”

There was something in his tone—an edge of dark foreboding—that told Sam with complete certainty that Optimus had intended to use the _Ark_ to stage a rescue. He felt a flush spread across his face and neck, and he ducked his head.

“Thanks Optimus.”

Optimus did not reply, his optics fathomless and intense, but he inclined his head faintly in response. It was a gesture of acknowledgement, of understanding—and it was a promise. They continued down the corridor without another word, the ringing of their footsteps echoing loudly down the passageway. They took the next corner, before crossing the large, cavernous room beyond, before turning down the hallway that contained the brig. Sam felt his heart start to beat quicker in his chest. He was keen to see Knock Out, to try to talk some sense into the medic, but he was nervous as well. Mercifully, he did not have long to dwell on his anxiety, as they stepped into the brig moments later.

Sam’s eyes immediately darted to the other side of the room. There were five large containment cells spaced along the back wall. The first four were dark and empty, but the fifth cell—the one nearest the large desk situated to their right—was illuminated with weak light. Sam’s heart clenched in anger at the sight of Knock Out resting on his knees, his arms bound behind his back. The medic was slumped in front of the transparent energy barrier at the forefront of the cell. Although Knock Out’s optics were unnaturally dim, they tracked Sam unerringly as he crossed the space towards him.

Sam glanced up at Ultra Magnus, who stood off to the side, as he approached.

“Deactivate the energy barrier.”

A frown pulled at the City Commander’s faceplates, before he looked towards Optimus for direction. Whatever he saw in the Autobot leader’s expression caused Ultra Magnus’ face to become inscrutable. After a moment, he stepped forward and thumbed a code into the panel set on the wall. The energy barrier sputtered with static before it disappeared completely.

Sam stepped into the cell, coming to a stop an arm’s length from Knock Out’s knee struts.

“Hey Knock Out.” He murmured.

“Hello Sam.” The medic replied. His voice was a low rasp, seemingly dragged from his vocalizer with great effort, “You’re looking well.”

Before Sam could reply, the medic’s optics flicked down to his hand. His lip panels thinned in disapproval as he took in the sight of the bandage.

“What happened?”

Sam rubbed his forearm, resisting the urge to push his hand into his pockets.

“I’m fine, I cut myself.”

The medic glanced up at him, his expression mild, “By accident?”

Sam huffed loudly, exasperation and irritation bleeding into his voice, “Obviously by accident.”

“Obviously.”

Sam rolled his eyes, before getting to the quick of the matter, “What are you doing here, Knock Out?”

The medic scoffed softly, rolling a shoulder in Ultra Magnus’ direction.

“I am enjoying the finest in Autobot hospitality.”

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed dangerously, a rumble reverberating through his chassis.

“You have no right to complain about the treatment of prisoners, _medic._ ” Ultra Magnus said, growling the designation like an insult.

“Don’t deflect, you know what I mean.” Sam said, as though Ultra Magnus hadn’t spoken, “Why haven’t you joined the Autobots?”

Knock Out huffed a dry laugh.

“I just deserted one megalomaniacal dictator. I am not overly keen to get in line behind another.”

Ultra Magnus hissed a harsh in-vent, obviously deeply affronted by the medic’s words. Before he could reply, however, Optimus directed a pointed, quelling look in his direction.

“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t.” Sam said, frowning.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Sam rolled his eyes, refusing to be baited by the sarcastic bite in Knock Out’s voice. He reached out a hand to clasp the medic’s elbow strut, giving him a little push.

“Yes, I do. You may have been in my head for the last two years—but I was also in yours. You aren’t a Decepticon, no matter how much you might pretend otherwise.”

Knock Out looked down at Sam’s hand, where it rested against the metal plating of his arm. After a moment, he raised his head and met Sam’s gaze.

“You are very naïve, even for a Prime.”

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug, “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Knock Out shuttered his optics slowly, but he did not reply. After a long moment, Sam gave his arm a little squeeze, before he took a step backwards.

“Stay here, if it suits you.” Sam said softly, “I’ll be waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.”

As soon as Sam stepped back over the groove lined into the floor, Ultra Magnus reactivated the energy barrier. The City Commander’s frame was stiff, his expression closed off and impenetrable. Sam stood there for a long moment, looking at Knock Out through the transparent energy field, before he turned to look up at Optimus.

“I’m going to get my hair cut.” He said, apropos of nothing.

The Autobot leader nodded in acknowledgement. Without another word, Sam turned on his heel and started walking towards the brig entrance. He was aware of Bumblebee following closely behind him, and he brushed against the scout’s mental presence appreciatively. Together they walked out of the brig and through the depths of the ship in silence. When they finally stepped into the bright light of the early afternoon sun, Sam had to bring his hand up to shield his eyes.

Bumblebee walked down the ramp in front of him, transforming into his alt mode without preamble. Sam strolled down after him, climbing into Bee’s waiting cabin with a murmur of appreciation. His bonded’s mental presence was withdrawn—not closed off exactly, but certainly reserved. If Sam concentrated, he could sense fleeting glimpses of _frustration_ and _anger._ Sam sighed heavily, pinning the dashboard with a look.

“What is it?”

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, inquiringly, and Sam’s look became pointed.

“Don’t try to pull that infiltrator bullshit with me.” Sam said, although there was no heat in his words, “You’re mad.”

There was a protracted pause, and then Bumblebee’s sigh gusted through the cabin.

“I’m not mad, Sam, I’m confused.” He said at last, “Knock Out tortured you for two years—how can you be so forgiving?”

Sam leaned back against the driver’s seat, sighing again.

“You weren’t there, you wouldn’t understand.” Sam replied simply, and he was immediately blindsided by the swell of _anger-helplessness-hatred_ from across their bond. He winced in response, tentatively reaching out a hand to press against the dashboard.

“I’m sorry, Bee.” He murmured apologetically, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it, exactly?” Bumblebee asked, his voice deceptively mild.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He could understand Bumblebee’s anger, especially if he had seen Knock Out’s memory files for the last two years. Logically, he knew that he should hate the medic—that he should hate all of them—but he didn’t. Knock Out had been kind, in his own way, gentling Sam with an air of indelible patience throughout the entire ordeal. He could have been cruel—it would have served Megatron’s purpose better than his kindness—but he hadn’t been. He had been soothing and calm and encouraging, even as Sam fell apart in front of him.

Sam swallowed hard. He was unable to articulate the fact that, even though Knock Out had contributed to his suffering, it would have been _so much worse_ without him. His morose thoughts were interrupted by the gentle press of Bumblebee’s mental presence against his mind.

 _//I understand, Sam.//_ Bee murmured, _//You don’t need to explain any further.//_

They drove in silence the rest of the way to the barber. Sam was so wrapped up in his thoughts and conflicting emotions that the entire experience passed by in a surreal blur. When he and Bumblebee entered the barbershop ten minutes later, the din and clamor of the small building slowly quietened as a dozen sets of eyes settled on them. The specialist behind the desk stood up as they approached, snapping off a sharp salute.

“Ambassador, good afternoon.” He greeted formally, before directing the same salute towards Bumblebee, “How can I help you today?”

Sam gestured vaguely towards the floor of the barbershop, “I’d like to make an appointment to get my haircut. It’s been awhile.”

A tall, elderly man in military greens stepped towards the front desk.

“I can take you now, Sir. If you’re available.”

Sam stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, before he lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

The soldier led him through the room, stopping behind an empty chair halfway down the row. Sam stepped around the chair, sitting down without being prompted. A moment later, the man swept the black cape around Sam’s shoulders, fastening it behind his neck with well-practiced hands.

“What would you like, Sir?”

Sam frowned faintly, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, honestly.” He replied, before adding as an afterthought, “Please, call me Sam.”

The older man’s eyebrows rose to his hairline as his lips quirked in amused surprise.

“Alright, Ambassador Sam, would you like me to use my best judgement?”

“Go for it.” He replied dryly, “Short but not too short.”

The solider nodded in understanding, before stepping around the chair to grab his scissors and a comb. Sam watched his reflection as the older man worked. Slowly but surely the person in the mirror became something more familiar to him as the pile of brown curls grew on the floor. The barber stepped away, checking over his handiwork with sharp eyes. The cut was not dissimilar to the style that Sam had preferred before he had been taken—short on the sides, longer on top. Satisfied with the result, the barber glanced down at him.

“Would you like a shave?”

Sam blinked up at him in surprise, “Uh… sure?”

The older man’s lips quirked in amusement again, “You ever shave with a straight razor before?”

“Uh, no. Only Gillette.”

His words caused the older man to chuckle lightly, “You’re in for a treat.”

As it turned out, the soldier was telling the truth. Despite Sam’s trepidation, the entire ordeal was deeply relaxing. The hot towels pressed against his face, the cool balm massaged in with clever fingers, the repetitive slide of sharpened metal against skin—by the time that the barber wiped away the last of the shaving cream from around Sam’s ears, he felt boneless. The barber unfastened the cape, pulling it away as he stepped aside to let Sam stand. Sam glanced towards the mirror, and his breath caught in his throat. He recognized the person staring back at him—he was thinner and paler than he remembered, but it was _him._ Sam raised a hand to rub over his jaw, relishing the feeling of bare skin for the first time in two years.

“Thank-you.” Sam murmured sincerely, his voice huskier than he intended. The barber had stopped to watch him, and at Sam’s words, his face softened in understanding.

“No problem, Ambassador Sam. I’m glad I could help.”

After a long moment, Sam made his way back down the row of barber chairs towards the front desk. Bumblebee stood as he approached, his eyes fixated on Sam’s face.

“Thank-you.” Sam said to the specialist at the front desk. The man nodded in acknowledgement, as Sam came to a stop in front of the holoform, “Are you ready to go?” 

Bumblebee nodded, before turning to push open the door. He stepped through the entryway, holding the door open for Sam who followed a moment later. As they made their way towards the strip of pavement along the back of the building that acted as the parking lot, Sam glanced towards the holoform. Bumblebee’s mental presence was a churning tide of emotions that Sam was unable to decipher.

“What, are you a beard man?” He joked lightly, trying to cover his sudden unease. As they rounded the corner of the building, out of view of the main roadway, Bumblebee turned and pulled him close. Sam made surprised sound as strong arms wrapped around him, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head.

“I’ve missed you.” Bumblebee said, his voice low and rough.

Sam’s eyes squeezed shut, as the maelstrom of emotions across their bond narrowed to a single, familiar sensation: _joy._ He hugged Bumblebee back, tucking his nose into the side of his neck and murmuring softly against his skin.

“I missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are so interested, this is roughly how I picture [ Sam after his haircut and shave](http://cdn01.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/shia-shaven/shia-labeouf-clean-shaven-03.jpg).


	14. Chapter 14

They stood there together, in the cool shade cast by the building, for a long moment. Eventually, Sam leaned back as far as Bumblebee’s arms would permit him, looking up at the holoform.

“So, you’re not a beard man, then?” He teased softly.

The holoform’s lips twitched in amusement, as he moved to card his fingers through Sam’s short curls. The palms of his hands were warm where they rested against the sides of Sam’s face. His grip firmed long enough for Bumblebee to bend down and press their lips together. It was a soft kiss, chaste and affectionate.

“Your physical appearance doesn’t matter to me. You’re you and you’re—“ Bumblebee cut himself off abruptly, consternation knitting the skin between his eyebrows. Sam’s expression softened at the contriteness written all over the holoform’s face.

“I’m yours.” He agreed, finishing Bumblebee’s sentence, “Say it.”

The consternation in Bumblebee’s expression deepened, a faint frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. Sam huffed in response, reaching out to pinch the skin of the holoform’s side between his thumb and forefinger. Bumblebee jumped, yelping in surprise.

“Say it.” Sam repeated pleasantly, his lips twitching at the surprised disbelief that he could feel across their bond.

Bumblebee dropped a hand to rub where Sam had pinched him. When he finally replied, his voice was decidedly exasperated, “You’re mine.”

Sam laughed at his dry tone.

“I am.” He agreed, grinning unrepentantly, “And you’re mine.”

Bumblebee huffed softly, as though in annoyance, but Sam could feel his amusement. Before he could reply, however, the sound of an engine caused them to glance over as a large military jeep trundled down Nimitz Road. Suddenly self-conscious, Sam stepped away from the holoform. Bumblebee let him go without protest.

“Do you want to go back to the Hive?” Bee asked. Sam paused, considering the question seriously, before he shook his head.

“I think I want to go for a walk.” He replied, surprising himself. Although it was cool in the shade provided by the squat, brick building, it was a beautiful afternoon—sunny and hot, with the smell of the ocean lingering in the air. Bumblebee’s expression warmed, becoming openly pleased.

“Would you like some company?”

“Always.” Sam agreed, his lips quirking up in a smile.

The holoform returned his smile, falling into step beside him as Sam started walking. They made their way through the base, nodding at the people they passed on the dusty shoulder that served as the sidewalk. The vehicle traffic was heavy, given the hour, with a stream of Humvees, Jeeps, and other light armored trucks passing them as they walked.

The sunshine was intense, without any cloud cover, and they had barely made it to Britannia Way before Sam was rolling up his shirtsleeves. By the time that they had made it to the edge of the Downtown area, his forehead and neck were beaded with perspiration. Thankfully, the water was much closer to the road at this part of the base, separated from them by only a narrow strip of well-manicured lawn and a thin beach. The cool breeze coming off the ocean was refreshing whenever it brushed across Sam’s skin.

As they left the main part of the base behind, the island’s vegetation became more pronounced. It began with reedy grasses and low-lying ferns that eventually morphed into thick, green shrubs dotted with white flowers. The shrubs acted as a natural barrier, growing in haphazard bunches all along the littoral zone. As they walked further away from the base, the shrubbery became interspersed with short, thin trees that were not more than eight or ten feet high. The shade cast by their large fronds was weak but welcome, all the same.

As they approached Simpson Point, the better part of half an hour later, Sam happened to notice Bumblebee’s alt mode trailing silently behind them. The Camaro flashed its high beams once, and Sam gave the holoform a friendly shove.

“Stalker.”

Bumblebee scoffed lightly, as though he were offended.

“Please. If I were stalking you, you’d never know it.”

Sam laughed, turning to make his way over the low dunes that separated the gravel road from the beach. The dunes were small and thin, barely more than half a meter in height. His shoes sunk into the white sand, warming his feet through the synthetic leather. The yellow Camaro came to a stop at the roadside behind them, metal pinging audibly in the hot, afternoon sun.

“Yeah, right. What about that first night in the junkyard?”

Sam could feel a wash of incredulity through their bond, and he glanced towards the holoform. Bumblebee’s expression was openly sardonic. 

“You don’t seriously think you had the drop on me, do you?”

Sam stopped, halfway up the dune, as he turned fully to look at him.

“Oh, bullshit. You didn’t know I was there.”

“Sam, I’m an—“

“Infiltrator.” Sam said at the same time, “Yeah, I know, I know.”

Bumblebee rolled his eyes, “I intended for you to watch my transmission. I had hoped it would ease our first contact.”

Sam shrugged good-naturedly, cresting the dune and making his way down the other side. Sand, loosened by his footfalls, cascaded in small slides down the slope of the hill.

“Yeah, it really didn’t.”

Bumblebee huffed a laugh, following after him, By the time that they made their way over the dune, Sam’s shoes were filled with sand. He frowned in consideration for a fraction of a second, before he sat on his ass on the beach. As he pulled off one shoe, he squinted up at the holoform.

“I’m just saying, I’d notice you anywhere.”

The holoform grinned, lowering into a loose crouch beside him. He balanced on the balls of his feet, arms resting on his knees, with his hands clasped loosely together.

“How long do you think I was following you before the used car lot?”

The question took Sam by surprise, and he glanced back at the holoform. Bumblebee was smiling at him, a smug, confident expression. Sam turned his shoe over, emptying out the sand.

“I don’t know… a couple days?”

“Three weeks. Back and forth to school, to the grocery store, to the mall—you were never outside of my sensor range.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, a moment before his face scrunched in tolerant annoyance.

“You’re full of shit.”

“Nope.” Bumblebee said, popping the ‘p’ with enthusiasm, “I was in Tranquility twelve hours after you first posted the eBay ad.”

Sam stared up at the holoform, searching for any sign of deception in his expression or through their bond. Finding none, he huffed quietly as he pulled off his other shoe.

“Are you jerking me around?” Sam asked, curious and amused in equal measures.

Bumblebee laughed, shaking his head.

“I’m very good at what I do.”

Sam smirked, certain that there was a double-entendre in there somewhere. He upended his shoe, giving it a good shake, before he frowned down at himself. Shoes or bare feet?

In the end, it was the gentle wash of water over sand that made his decision for him. Sam rolled his pants up past his knees and stuffed his socks into his shoes, leaving them by the dune. He pushed himself to his feet, reaching down to offer his hand to Bumblebee. The holoform humored him, grasping Sam’s hand and pulling himself into a standing position. Together they padded across the beach towards the foreshore. The dry sand bordered on uncomfortably hot, but the sand that was wet from wave run-up was cool.

They walked together side-by-side, Sam nearer the water and Bumblebee nearer the beach. Every time the waves broke over the sand, water rushing around his feet, Sam grinned like a child. Unlike the beaches near Tranquility, Simpson Point was pristine—soft, white sand as far as the eye could see, unmarred by rocks or debris. Although coral reef posed a risk to feet and shins in the deeper water, walking along the foreshore was entirely pleasant.

Sam glanced sidelong at the holoform, suddenly possessed by a feeling of contentment. He reached out his left arm, tracing his fingertips over Bumblebee’s hand. The holoform looked down at the point their hands touched, his expression becoming openly fond. Before either of them could say anything, however, the Creator bond _shivered_ in his mind. A moment later, Ratchet’s mental presence brightened forebodingly across their connection.

“Avenge my death.” Sam said dryly, bracing himself. Bumblebee’s lips quirked in sympathetic amusement.

_//Where are you?//_

Sam heaved a loud, put-upon sigh.

 _//I’m at Simpson Point.//_ He replied, before adding helpfully, _//Dr. Anderson said that I should exercise.//_

Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, Ratchet’s presence swelled with disapproval.

_//Did your therapist also suggest meeting with Knock Out?//_

Sam hesitated, affecting his best mental impression of wide-eyed innocence.

 _//They say it’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.//_ He tried.

 _//Not from me.//_ Ratchet replied sharply. Although their bond was not as open as it had been the night before, Sam could still feel the medic’s abject displeasure.

 _//It’s alright, Ratch.//_ Sam tried to placate him, _//Optimus went with me.//_

_//The fact that you wheedled Prime into taking you to the Ark in no way improves your position.//_

Sam scoffed, mildly affronted.

 _//I didn’t wheedle him, I reasoned with him—because_ Optimus _is reasonable.//_ He replied, sharper than he had intended.

_//Optimus is neither your physician nor your Creator.//_

All at once, Sam realized that Ratchet’s objection to his meeting with Knock Out wasn’t medical in nature. His expression softened, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

 _//Do you want me to come back?//_ He asked hesitantly.

Ratchet’s mental presence shifted, as though taken aback by Sam’s sudden meekness.

 _//The damage is done.//_ Ratchet grudgingly replied, after a moment, _//You might as well get some fresh air and sunshine. Do you feel up to returning to the neural-net?//_

It took Sam a second to realize that Ratchet was asking whether he wanted to be free of the confines of the Creator bond. He shrugged, before realizing that the medic couldn’t see the gesture.

_//I defer to your medical opinion.//_

Ratchet snorted loudly.

_//All evidence to the contrary, but very well. Let me know at once if you feel overwhelmed.//_

Sam felt the medic’s presence shift in his mind, and then a moment later, he was back within the neural-net. The sudden influx of _sensation_ was intense—numerous signatures glowed at him from the darkness of the network, brilliant and enticing. After years of solitude and silence, the experience was indeed overwhelming, but in a most exquisite way.

“Sam, are you alright?” Bumblebee asked, concern furrowing his brow as he brought up a hand to steady him.

Sam laughed softly, stretching his mental presence as far as he could manage. His range was significantly greater than it had been before his captivity. Insofar as he could tell, it encompassed most of the base now. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating. There, at the edges of his awareness, Sam could make out Hot Rod’s rosy-gold signature. It was faint, but unmistakable.

“Where’s Roddy?” He asked, glancing at the holoform in building excitement.

Understanding dawned on Bumblebee’s face a moment before his expression smoothed into a pleased smile, “He’s at the munitions depot.”

Sam grinned broadly, reaching out to brush against the familiar signature. There was a start of surprise, and then Roddy pushed into his mental space, crowding his mind with great enthusiasm. Sam laughed delightedly, giving his presence a friendly shove, before turning his attention outwards. The neural-network was brighter, more alight with _sensation_ and _impression_ than he had previously realized.

“This is wild.” Sam breathed, looking back at the holoform, “It’s so… _different_.”

“It will continue to change as you gain experience. The more your neural connections develop, the better you will become at interpreting the input you receive.”

“I don’t know how you guys get anything done. It’s like having instant messenger in my head.”

Bumblebee laughed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“There’s good reason why I was never bored sitting around in your garage all day.” He teased.

Sam chuckled lightly before turning to continue down the beach. Bumblebee kept pace at his side, walking closely enough that their arms brushed together. The quiet solitude of the seashore was entirely at odds with the bustle of _activity_ from the neural-net. Sam was surprised to find that the juxtaposition was strangely soothing: it was privacy and companionship, serenity and sensation.

Sam walked closer to the surf, so that the waves washed up past his ankles when they broke upon the shore. Even though the sun was relentless, the combination of the water and the ocean breeze left him feeling entirely comfortable. As he stared out at the water, Sam made the decision to go swimming the next time that Ratchet let him outside.

As they rounded the bend in the beach, Sam saw an unfamiliar mechanoid sitting cross-legged in the sand. The blue and white Autobot was surrounded by an assortment of debris—rocks, palm fronds, coconuts, and branches. He was holding a large coconut crab in his servos, staring at it with intense focus.

“Beachcomber.” Bumblebee supplied helpfully.

Sam turned to grin up at him, “Yeah, I was able to put two and two together, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Bumblebee replied dryly.

Beachcomber didn’t acknowledge their presence until they were almost upon him. When at last they caught his attention, the geologist lowered the coconut crab to watch them approach.

“Good afternoon to you both.” He greeted politely. His voice was deep and serene.

“Hello Comber.” Bumblebee greeted back, before gesturing towards Sam, “This is Sam.”

Beachcomber turned his brilliant blue optics in Sam’s direction, “Your reputation proceeds you. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

Sam felt himself flush to his hairline. He glanced towards the holoform, who lifted his shoulders in a sympathetic shrug.

“Your planet is fascinating. I have learned much during my time here.” Beachcomber said, motioning with the coconut crab that he held gently with both servos, “I would enjoy the opportunity to speak with you about it.”

Sam glanced at the mottled red and brown crustacean, who did not seem particularly enthused to be the object of scrutiny of the metal titan. When he looked back at the geologist, he was surprised to see keen interest written all over his faceplates. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“I’m happy to chat, but I don’t know anything you couldn’t find with a Google search.”

Beachcomber tilted his helm, as though in consideration, “I find that doubtful to believe. I am certain that your training in the geosciences would provide a unique perspective.”

“My training in the geosciences?” Sam repeated, uncertainly.

“I was informed that you declared a major in geography. It is my understanding that geographers seek to understand the complexities of your planet.”

Sam huffed in understanding.

“Oh, that. Yeah, I took some introductory courses on physical geography, but I’m studying to become a political geographer.” Sam said, before adding wryly, “Or rather, I would be, if I could stop getting attacked every semester. It’s really harshing my GPA.”

As Bumblebee made a strangled sound of exasperation, Beachcomber transferred the coconut crab into one servo so he could wave the other one dismissively.

“Your personal experiences combined with your familial desire to understand the natural environment will surely provide me all the prospective I require.”

Sam turned back towards the geologist, tilting his head in confusion, “My familial what-now?”

Beachcomber set the coconut crab onto the sand, before picking up a large rock from the semi-circle of debris around him. The stone was large, about the size of a laundry basket, chalk-white and covered in lumps and protrusions.

“Your grandfather led the National Arctic Circle Expedition, did he not? Your interest in geography seems highly appropriate.” 

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He had never thought about that before, but it was true that his grandfather was a navigator and explorer. Sam opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say a word, both Beachcomber and Bumblebee’s holoform stiffened from head to toe.

“Sam!” Bumblebee snapped, grabbing his shoulders tightly, “We have to—“

A sonic boom cracked through the air, drowning out the rest of Bumblebee’s sentence. Sam ducked back reflexively, his heart lodging itself in his throat. As Sam turned towards the direction of the noise, Bumblebee’s grip tightened to the point of pain. Two sleek-looking jets streaked through the air, banking to curve around the island. Sam’s surprise and fear morphed into mortal terror in an instant, and he turned panicked eyes towards the holoform. Before Sam could open his mouth to speak, he felt a presence brush gently across his mind. The touch was inquisitive, non-hostile, and entirely familiar.

 _//Hello Sam.//_ Thundercracker greeted.

Sam’s breath stuttered out of him, his lungs freezing at the Seeker’s voice. All at once, Ratchet’s presence filled his mind, yanking him back inside the Creator bond so quickly that it made his head swim. He swayed precariously, lightheaded and dizzy, and Bumblebee’s holoform pressed steadily against him. His expression was one of abject fury, his eyes following the jets as they cut across the sky.

In the distance, Sam could hear the steadily growing roar of a familiar engine. He glanced towards the bream as Bumblebee launched over the dunes, yellow plating gleaming in the early afternoon sun as he landed hard on the beachfront. The holoform pulled him towards the alt mode, his fingers digging into Sam’s upper arms. He was so stunned that he staggered after him without protest. A moment later, Sam found himself inside the cabin, the door slamming shut behind him as Bumblebee accelerated back towards the road.

A riot of noise spilled from the Camaro’s radio.

_//I’ve got him.//_

_//Kup, Hot Rod, and Ultra Magnus are two breams out.//_ Prowl’s calm voice replied.

Sam twisted against the seat, turning to stare out the back window towards the beach. He could make out Beachcomber’s hulking bipedal mode, shrinking in the distance, but he couldn’t see the jets.

_//Air defenses are primed and at the ready.//_

Sam’s breathing was ragged, his fingers digging into the supple leather of Bumblebee’s seat. Distantly, he was aware of his bonded’s laser focus, his tightly leashed rage.

“What… what are they doing?” He managed, his voice harsh.

Prowl answered immediately.

_//They are skirting the edges of our air defense, neither pushing in nor falling back.//_

Sam turned in his seat, staring at the radio uncomprehendingly.

“They aren’t attacking?”

 _//Not yet.//_ Ironhide growled, and the dark edge to his voice made Sam shiver.

Bumblebee’s engine revved loudly, the speedometer needle burying in the red. As they turned onto the paved road in the direction of Downtown, a Lamborghini, a semi-truck, and a dilapidated pick-up truck roared passed them. Bee slowed only marginally as they drove down Britannia Way towards the Hive. The Downtown area was a riot of activity. Soldiers and civilian personnel ran along the side of the road, some heading in the direction of the airfield while others hurried towards the Hive. Light armored vehicles filled with NEST soldiers passed them as they drove.

 _//There is an incoming ping, Decepticon identifiers, classified urgent.//_ Prowl reported, voice calm.

_//What are those fraggers playing at?//_

Bumblebee pulled into the bunker, rolling to a stop on the lift. The heavy blast doors shut behind them with a resounding _clang_ of metal on metal. A moment later, there was a dizzying lurch and the lift began its descent into the Hive.

 _//Are they_ glitched _?//_ Sunstreaker snapped, disbelief and rage mingled in his tone.

“What?” Sam demanded, looking at the radio, “What did they say?”

“They want to parlay.” Bumblebee replied, his voice tight.

Sam stared at the dash, anxiety mingling with disbelief. 

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I am not.” Bumblebee refuted grimly.

The sound of a strident alarm became audible as they passed through the floor, growing louder as they descended into the receiving room. All at once, Sam was back in Ops as the same alarm cut across the din of the command post. White-hot panic slammed through him as the flashback consumed him. He could smell the stale coffee in the air, feel the sweat prickling on his skin. He was totally unaware of his surroundings, the shrill klaxon of the alarm burrowing into the recesses of his brain—

Ratchet was there in an instant, his rock-steady presence filling his mind as he forcibly pulled Sam out of the memory. He came back to himself, shaking with adrenaline and desperately trying to pull breath into his burning lungs.

“Oh, shit.” He gasped, his hands braced against the driver’s side door and the center console, “ _Fuck!_ ”

Bumblebee pulled into the medical bay, transforming as soon as he came to a complete stop. Before Sam realized what was happening, he was clutched tightly against Bumblebee’s spark casing as he rose into his bipedal mode. Ratchet stood directly in front of them, while First Aid and an unknown Autobot stood a short distance away.

“Throttle down, Bumblebee.” Ratchet ordered sharply, “You’re holding him too tightly.”

It was true, Sam realized. He could barely breathe from the force of Bumblebee’s grip. At the medic’s words, the hold around him gentled, and Bumblebee whistled at him apologetically.

“It’s fine.” Sam said, after he caught his breath. He glanced towards Ratchet, brushing against his mental presence, “Thanks for the assist earlier.”

Mercifully, the klaxon wail of the proximity alarm was fainter in the medical bay. Sam glanced up at his guardian, who was looking at him with an intensity of expression that he understood all too well. He pressed his palm against Bumblebee’s spark casing.

“I’m alright.” He soothed, aware of the tension in Bumblebee’s chassis, “I’m alright, Bee.”

First Aid chirped concernedly, glancing at Ratchet.

“But he has radiation burns.”

Sam’s head jerked towards the medic before he looked down at himself in confusion, “ _What?_ ”

“A sunburn.” Ratchet clarified dryly, “You’ll live, I’m sure.”

Sam glanced down at himself again, and he realized that Ratchet was right. His arms were pink where he had rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“I think we have bigger issues.” Sam said, before adding, “What the hell do they want?”

“They want to talk to Prime.”

“What for?”

“I can hazard a guess.” Ratchet replied, pinning him with a level look.

Sam frowned, anxiety blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“Will Optimus agree to it?”

“I have no idea.” Ratchet said honestly, but his voice was sharper than normal, “It seems unlikely that Prime would refuse their request to speak on peaceful terms.”

At the CMO’s words, Bumblebee’s mental presence darkened forebodingly. The naked _animosity_ in his bonded’s demeanor sent a shiver down Sam’s spine. It was sometimes easy to forget that his best friend and guardian was also a soldier with a lifetime’s worth of combat experience. First Aid glanced sidelong at Ratchet, his expression meaningful. The CMO looked back, nodding faintly.

All at once, Sam realized that the four of them were having a silent conversation.

“What is it?” He demanded sharply, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing of consequence, Sam.” Ratchet replied, before he gestured towards the familiar berth, “Bumblebee?”

Sam narrowed his eyes in response.

“Ratchet.” He started, warningly, “I swear to God—“

Before Sam could finish his threat, however, the unknown mechanoid stepped towards him. He was bulky and broad shouldered, similar in frame type to Ratchet, but his plating was forest-green and gray.

“We haven’t been formally introduced. My name is Hoist, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sam’s voice trailed off in surprise. The medic’s accent was distinctly British, his tone warm and friendly.

“Uh… hello to you too.” He said, awkwardly, as Bumblebee placed him on the berth. The tips of his bonded’s digits lingered on his back for a long moment before he withdrew.

“I asked Ratchet if I might assist with your care this afternoon.” Hoist continued, “I would welcome the opportunity to get to know you, as I’ve been tasked as your secondary care provider.”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, feeling terribly wrong-footed at the unexpected turn of conversation, “My what?”

“Your secondary care provider, in the unlikely instance that Ratchet is unable to respond during a medical emergency.”

Sam glanced in Ratchet’s direction in time to see the CMO transform into his alt mode. He frowned faintly, the feeling of anxiety sharpening in his stomach as Ratchet accelerated towards the hangar doors. He turned his attention inwards, reaching for the medic’s mental presence. Ratchet brushed against him in response, patient and reassuring.

_//I will be back shortly.//_

“Sam, if you would please?” Hoist asked, motioning towards the hospital gurney. A moment later, an unfamiliar holoform flickered into existence beside him. He was of a similar height to Sam, middle-aged with short brown hair that was peppered with gray. As with Ratchet’s holoform, Hoist’s was dressed in military fatigues with the insignia of the medical corps pinned to his shoulder. Unlike Ratchet’s holoform, however, he also wore a white coat and had a stethoscope slung around his neck.

Sam looked at him uncertainly, before glancing up at Bumblebee. The scout whistled at him reassuringly, nodding towards the gurney. Unable to see an alternative, Sam climbed up onto the mattress, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. Hoist hummed approvingly, moving to reconnect the tubing to the cannula taped to the back of Sam’s hand.

As Hoist turned to inspect the bag of saline hanging from the rack beside his bed, Sam realized just how efficiently he had been maneuvered.

* * *

Ratchet slowed to a stop inside of the command center before transforming into his bi-pedal mode. As soon as the last component slid into place, he strode towards the large conference table that dominated the center of the room. Ironhide stood at one end of the table, his arms crossed over his chassis and open irritation on his face. Kup and Ultra Magnus stood side by side at the other end of the table, their expressions similarly closed-off and inscrutable. Ratchet stopped beside the Weapon’s Specialist, brushing against his electromagnetic field in greeting. The ping that he received a moment later was a wordless pulse of _frustration_ and _anger_.

Prime and Prowl stepped up to the conference table as soon as Ratchet took his place at Ironhide’s side. Before Prime could speak, however, Ultra Magnus ex-vented loudly.

“I don’t like it.”

Prime turned his helm to regard his City Commander, his optics narrowed in consideration.

“Nor do I, my friend.” Optimus rumbled, “But I cannot in good conscience decline an offer for peaceful parlay.”

“You saw the memory files, Prime. Megatron will never agree to a peace so long as we have Sam.” Ironhide ground out, “This is a misdirection at best and an ambush at worst.”

Optimus’ mouthplates turned down, his expression contemplative.

“I am not convinced that the Seekers are here at Megatron’s command. If he were to offer parlay, he would do so himself.”

Prowl shuttered his optics, turning to regard their leader.

“Not necessarily. Neither Megatron nor Starscream came to deliver the message. It is unlikely to be a coincidence that the two Seekers with whom Sam formed an attachment are the ones to make contact.”

Ultra Magnus rumbled lowly in his chassis, a sound of deep disquiet.

“Thundercracker, Skywarp, Ravage, _Knock Out_. He has formed many bonds with those who would claim to be his enemies.”

Ratchet stiffened at the insinuation underlying the City Commander’s words.

“What are you implying, Ultra Magnus?” He asked coldly.

Ultra Magnus leveled him with a pointed look, unflinching in the face of Ratchet’s rising temper.

“I am implying nothing. I am speculating as to whether the boy was compromised.”

Ratchet bristled in offense, “I would remind you that I have been in Sam’s head every minute since he came through the ground bridge.”

“Knock Out tortured him for two years, and that boy stepped into his cell without a flicker of fear or uncertainty in his field.”

“That ‘boy’ is a ward of Cybertron and a Prime. Watch your tone.” Ironhide growled.

Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed minutely.

“Your judgment is clouded because of your emotional attachment to him.”

Ironhide scoffed loudly, “I have been accused of many things, Ultra Magnus, but being overly emotional is not one of them.”

“Please, be at peace.” Optimus rumbled, before directing a solemn and dignified look at Ultra Magnus, “I am certain that Sam has not been compromised. The Creator bond and spark bond notwithstanding, he is faithful to a fault. Disloyalty is not in his programming.”

“That may be so, but it piques my concern that his rescue was so easy—and now, Thundercracker and Skywarp have come to request parlay? Can you be certain that his rescue was not orchestrated for this very purpose?”

“You’ve seen their memory files, you know that it was not.” Ratchet growled.

“Memory files can be altered or deleted.”

“Not two years’ worth and not for all three mechanoids.”

Rather than reply to him, Ultra Magnus turned towards Prime.

“I am your City Commander. It is my duty to protect the 5500 humans who are stationed on this base, including Sam himself. I believe that accepting the Decepticon’s request will only pose a risk to the humans and to ourselves.”

Optimus inclined his helm a fraction of an inch, “Your objection is so noted.”

Ultra Magnus ex-vented again, his agitation and displeasure obvious in his electromagnetic fields.

“As you say, Prime.”

Their leader looked slowly around the table, “If there is a chance, no matter how insignificant, that our agreement to parlay leads to peace, I must try. We can minimize the risks to the island with careful planning.”

“Megatron is not coming within a thousand kilometers of him.” Ratchet said, voice tight.

Optimus rumbled lowly, his optics narrowing in carefully controlled emotion.

“No. He is not.”

“If you insist on following through with this processor-glitch of an idea, then there will have to be concessions.” Kup cut in, speaking for the first time since Ratchet had entered the command center.

“I agree. I have instructed Thundercracker that we will transmit our response within the cycle. That gives us ample time to strategize.”

Prowl stepped up to the large table and a three-dimensional projection of the island flickered to life. As the second-in-command began to speak about troop positioning and tactical advantages of terrain, Ratchet reached towards Sam’s signature, which glowed softly at him from across their bond. There was a start of _surprise_ and _exasperation_ as he made contact, but before Sam could say a word, Ratchet tucked him close to his spark. As he turned his attention back towards the briefing, the steady thrum of Sam’s presence served to soothe the stark concern pinging through his processors.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments on the last chapter. It means more to me than I can say. I would have stopped writing this a long time ago if not for all of you. 
> 
> **Chapter Warning** : Flashback to sexual assault.

Hoist adjusted the clamp on the bag of saline to his satisfaction, before making his way around the gurney to retrieve a pitcher of water from the side table. He filled a plastic cup to the brim and extended it towards Sam. Sam looked from Hoist, to the cup, and back again, before he reached out his good hand to accept the offering.

“Thanks.” He murmured, taking a sip to appease the holoform. The water was cool and fresh, lacking the flat, metallic tang from the base’s indoor plumbing system. Sam huffed softly in surprise and took a deeper drink. Hoist smiled at him approvingly, his expression kind and open, before he fetched a pile of folded linen from the shelf along the back of the berth. The holoform stepped forward, offering the towel to Sam.

“Ratchet disapproves of containments in his medical bay.” Hoist explained, almost apologetically.

At Sam’s confused expression, the holoform gestured meaningfully to his legs. All at once, Sam realized that his pants were still rolled up, and he was covered in sand almost to his knees. 

“Oh, right.” Sam said, setting the cup down on the overbed table. He took the towel from the holoform, rubbing it over his shins and feet. When he finished, he rolled down his pants and brushed off the mattress. Hoist’s bipedal mode made quick work of the mess, wiping down the berth with an efficiency born of long experience. When he was finished, the medic carried the soiled linen across the hangar.

Sam took another drink of water, turning his attention inwards. Although Ratchet’s presence was fully accessible to him across their bond-space, the medic was strangely closed off. It only took him a moment to realize that Ratchet’s attention was focused elsewhere. Before he could ponder the implications of this knowledge, the distant wail of the proximity alarm abruptly cut off.

He sighed in relief, the sudden absence of sound strangely loud in his ears. He turned to make a comment to Bumblebee, but whatever he might have said trailed off in his throat. His guardian was standing rigidly a short distance away, armor plating and door wings flared outwards. The sight caused the corners of Sam’s mouth to downturn slightly. It was a familiar display—he had seen it in both Mission City and in Egypt. Bumblebee was threat posturing.

“Bee.” Sam called softly. It took a second or two for the yellow scout to respond to his voice—which, for an organism capable of analyzing terabytes of data in moments, was deeply concerning. Bumblebee’s optics shuttered slowly, their lenses spiraling down to pinpoints before focusing on him.

“C’mon buddy.” Sam said, trying to inject levity into his voice, “Everything’s copasetic, you can relax.”

“He can’t help it, Sam.” Hoist explained gently, as he approached the berth, “His threat identification protocols are over-clocked.”

“What?” Sam asked, confusedly.

“It is nothing to be concerned about. Bumblebee is neither in any danger nor in pain. He will come out of it after his systems finish re-organizing his priority codes.”

Sam’s frown returned as he glanced from the medic to his bonded. Bumblebee was watching them closely, his optics unnaturally bright. Sam could hear the _hiss_ of his hydraulics, audible over the faint hum of his fully charged capacitator. The realization that his bonded was at the mercy of his core programming was deeply unsettling. Hoist seemed to sense his uncertainty, his concern, for the medic was suddenly all business. He stepped towards the gurney, cleaning off the overbed table with precise movements.

“Can you eat? It’s almost seven.” Hoist asked, voice kind but firm.

Sam slowly turned to look at the medic, a sick feeling in his stomach.

“Huh?”

“What do you want for supper?” Hoist prompted, switching tactics.

“Oh. I’m not hungry.”

Hoist hummed sympathetically, “Be that as it may, Ratchet has you on a regimented meal plan. You need between 400 and 600 calories before you go to sleep. What would you like to eat?”

Sam glanced at the medic in surprise, temporarily distracted from the anxiety churning in his gut.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked. Ratchet just brings whatever he wants me to eat.”

“Of that, I am certain.” Hoist replied with a chuckle, “The digital menu indicates that this evening’s main courses are pho, chicken curry, or vegetarian lasagna.”

“Oh, um. Pho, I guess?”

The medic nodded encouragingly, “Alright, I will have someone bring it over. In the meantime, you should get some rest.”

Hoist smiled at him before he stepped away, walking across the hangar towards the workbenches. Sam watched him go, before settling himself back against the mattress. He tucked his hands behind his head, mindful of his injuries, and stared up at the ceiling. As with most other surfaces of the medical bay, the ceiling was etched with whorls and overlaid with a lattice of cables. He followed the cables with his eyes, tracking their meandering route over the ceiling and down the walls.

The sudden, soft sound of hydraulics and shifting metal drew Sam’s attention back towards his guardian. Bumblebee’s posture had relaxed, his plating settling back against his chassis. As Sam made to push up onto his elbows, Bumblebee crouched down beside the berth.

“Hey.” Sam said, his heartrate picking up, “You back with me? You okay?”

Bumblebee’s expression became sheepish, almost embarrassed.

“I am sorry if I startled you, Sam. The far-reaching control of our protocols can be aggravating at times.”

“It’s okay.” Sam replied, “I was just… surprised, is all.”

Bumblebee whistled at him understandingly, and Sam reached out a hand to stroke the warm metal of his faceplates.

“Does it ever put you off? How different I am?” Sam asked quietly, “I don’t have base programming or battle protocols. I can’t think like you do or respond to threats like you do.”

Bumblebee shuttered his optics at him, as though he were considering his question seriously.

“I often reflect on our differences, certainly.” Bumblebee replied, thoughtfully, “But they are not a source of disappointment for me. On the contrary, your perspective is… refreshing, after all this time.”

Sam laughed lightly, “Is that a euphemism for something?”

“Not at all.” Bumblebee denied, “The way that you perceive your environment, the way that you process sensations, the way that you _feel…_ it is invigorating. I enjoy it very much.”

The sincerity in Bumblebee’s voice made the corners of Sam’s lips twitch up.

“Well, that’s nice to hear.” Sam murmured.

“Our differences are less important than our similarities.” Bumblebee continued, “Our peoples both value life and liberty, there are things that bring us joy and those that cause us sorrow. We love and are loved, we live and we die, and our experiences are all the more precious for it.”

Sam looked into his guardian’s solemn optics, his expression softening in affection.

“That’s some pretty deep stuff, Bee.”

“Totally, man.” Bumblebee deadpanned, and Sam threw back his head and laughed. He was still chuckling when Hoist brought his dinner a few minutes later. The broad-framed medic set the tray on the overbed table, pushing it towards him with a servo.

“Thanks.” Sam said, turning to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“It is my pleasure.” Hoist replied, before stepping in front of Bumblebee, “Is now a good time?”

His guardian shrugged noncommittally, but he extended his left arm all the same. Hoist chirped at him, a complicated series of short, high-pitched sounds, before he unspooled his interface cable. As Sam retrieved his spoon and began to eat, he watched Hoist plug into Bumblebee’s medical port.

“Everything okay?” He asked, warily.

Both Bumblebee and Hoist turned to look at him.

“Of course,” Hoist replied immediately, “Routine maintenance, nothing to cause any concern.”

“What kind of routine maintenance?” Sam countered.

“Hoist is running a diagnostic on my combat sub-routines.” Bumblebee soothed, “There’s really nothing wrong. Think of it like an annual check-up.”

Mollified by the feeling of _sincerity_ from across their bond, Sam turned back to his supper. The pho was lightly seasoned with tender pieces of beef. He finished the entire thing, even spooning the remnants of rice noodles from the bottom of the bowl. It warmed him from the inside out, leaving him feeling comfortably full. When Hoist returned to check on him a short while later, Sam pushed aside the overbed table and asked to use the washroom. The medic obligingly unhooked him from the IV and Bumblebee walked him across the hangar. After he had finished, Sam washed his hands and splashed his face with water, sluicing away sweat and sea salt. He dried his face with a towel from the shelf set in the wall, and then walked back out into the medical bay.

To his relief, Ratchet was standing in front of his workbench, speaking quietly with Hoist in Cybertronian. Sam walked towards Bumblebee, who was crouched in his bi-pedal mode a short distance away. He stepped close to the scout, angling his head to smile up at him. Bumblebee whistled at him softly, raising his servo in order to trail the tips of his digits down the length of Sam’s back.

“You did well on your supper.” Ratchet commented, and Sam turned to see that the medic was regarding him with his arms folded over his chassis.

“I like Pho.” Sam replied, raising his shoulder in a shrug, “Where’d you go?”

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, as though he were considering his response.

“Prime called a senior staff meeting regarding the Seekers’ request.”

Sam frowned faintly. Before his captivity, he had been included among Optimus’ senior staff.

“That is not necessarily so.” Ratchet corrected, responding to his unspoken thoughts, “You exist outside of the NEST command structure. Your prior invitations were at Prime’s discretion.”

“And Optimus didn’t want me there today.” Sam intuited, voice flat.

“Whether he did or did not is irrelevant. You have not been cleared for return to active duty.”

Sam rolled his eyes at the medic’s matter-of-fact tone, but he did not respond to the intimation. Instead, he asked the question that had been sitting on his mind ever since he heard about the request for parlay.

“Well? Is Optimus going to do it?”

“Yes, he is. He has agreed to meet with them tomorrow afternoon.”

Sam’s frown returned, deepening as anxiety twisted in his belly.

“Any idea what they want?”

Ratchet’s expression became pointed, “Not precisely, no. Extrapolating from the available facts, however, we can reasonably assume that it has to do with you.”

“Is it safe?” Sam asked quietly.

“If you are asking whether the base will be protected, the answer is yes.” Ratchet replied, “There have been substantial improvements to both security and military countermeasures since Megatron’s attack.” The medic’s countenance became no-nonsense as he continued, “If you are asking whether you yourself will be safe, you will not be going.”

Sam’s frown sharpened, irritation joining his anxiety.

“I’m not exactly thrilled to see them again, but I should be there if I’m the focus of the discussion.”

“Don’t argue, Sam.” Bumblebee replied before Ratchet could speak. Sam turned to look up at him, taken aback by the scout’s tone. He could not remember the last time that Bumblebee had sounded so unyielding. He flushed to his hairline, feeling deeply disconcerted, as his eyes dropped away from the scout’s face.

“That’s enough.” Ratchet said brusquely, lowering into a crouch as he extended a servo towards Sam, “It’s time to get you situated for the evening.”

Sam climbed into the large metal palm without another word, steadying himself as Ratchet stood up and deposited him beside the gurney. He pulled off his pants, leaving them in a pile on the berth, before climbing onto the mattress. As soon as he was in place, Ratchet’s holoform materialized beside him. Sam left himself be maneuvered without protest. First, his IV was reconnected and then he was guided to lay back against the mattress. The holoform twitched the blankets up to his chest, and then turned to inspect the bag of saline. Apparently, Ratchet was satisfied with whatever he saw, for the holoform disappeared a moment later. 

“Get some sleep, Sam.” The CMO instructed, not unkindly, “I will lower the lights.”

Sam did not reply, instead rolling onto his side as he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. He had slept until noon and it was still early in the evening. Although he knew that sleep would be a long time coming, he had absolutely no desire to speak with anyone. After an extracted silence, Sam could hear the sound of metal against metal as someone—presumably Bumblebee—transformed into their alt mode. A moment later, Bumblebee’s holoform appeared on the berth in front of him. The holoform’s expression was hesitant, almost uncertain, as though he were afraid of being rebuffed. Sam shifted backward, making room for him on the mattress. With a look of abject relief, the holoform climbed onto the gurney, settling down beside him. He tucked one arm beneath his head, resting the other over Sam’s hips. Sam didn’t say a word, instead closing his eyes as he struggled not to dwell on why Bumblebee’s seriousness left him feeling so vulnerable.

Although Sam was certain that sleep would not come, he drifted off after only a short while. He slept deeply, his dreams untroubled despite the tumultuousness of the afternoon. When he awoke an interminable time later, to the sound of shifting metal and hushed voices, Sam groaned in disapproval. He was warm and comfortable, and he had absolutely no desire to get up. He rolled over, pulling the blankets up to his ears as he tucked his face against the pillow. He heard a quiet chuckle behind him, and Bumblebee’s holoform shifted to accommodate his new position.

He lay there like that, drifting in the hazy place between fully awake and fully asleep, when he heard another _clang_ of metal against metal. He cracked open an eye and lifted his head slightly to look in the direction of the noise. Jolt was lying supine on a berth halfway down the hangar. Hoist was standing at his side, his servos wrist-deep in the warrior’s side plating. Jolt’s electric whips lay coiled at his side, inert.

Sam frowned, pushing himself up onto one elbow.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s fine.” Bee assured him, amusement in his voice, “Although he will be less fine if Ratchet catches wind of it.”

Sam turned to glance over his shoulder. The holoform was lying behind him, his expression open and relaxed. The sight of him made Sam’s lips quirk in affection, the anxiety and uncertainty of the previous night soothed away by a good rest.

“Good morning.” He murmured, voice rough with sleep, as he rolled onto his back.

“Good morning.” Bumblebee replied, “You slept well.”

The words were a statement, not a question, and Sam chuckled quietly before glancing back towards Jolt.

“What happened to him?”

“Jolt happened to himself.” Hoist replied dryly, before removing his servos from Jolt’s side, “Alright, you can close up.”

Obligingly, the plating on Jolt’s side shifted back into place and his optics on-lined as he sat up.

“Thanks, Doc.” The shock trooper said cheerfully, “Appreciate it.”

Hoist’s expression was one of good-natured exasperation, “Next time, leave the scaffolding to the engineers.”

Jolt shrugged, pushing off the berth, “It was faster for me to do it.”

“Evidentially not.”

Jolt picked up his electric whips and coiled them back into place at his side. When he finished, he glanced down the hangar in Sam’s direction.

“Good morning, Sam. Glad you’re back.”

“Thanks Jolt.” Sam replied.

The blue and white shock trooper raised two fingers to his forehead in a friendly salute, before he turned and made his way out of the medical bay. Hoist cleaned off the berth, retrieving his assortment of tools and putting them back on the workbench along the opposite wall. Sam turned back towards the holoform, smiling at him faintly.

“We never slept together before all of this. How can you spare the energon?”

“We haven’t been on energon rations in over three months—not since Beachcomber arrived and took over surveying.” Bee replied.

Sam reached out his good hand to trace the edge of the holoform’s jaw.

“Well, I’m glad. This is nice.”

Bumblebee’s eyes brightened, his expression warm and sunny.

“It is. I enjoy it a great deal.”

Sam laughed lightly, “Yeah, well, I think I got the better end of the bargain. I know that I snore.”

“And drool.” Bumblebee replied pleasantly. Sam made an indignant noise, and a moment later, the holoform caught a pillow full in the face.

“Humans do have a staggering variety of secretions, but we do not hold it against you.” First Aid agreed cheerfully as he approached the berth. Sam glanced up at him, surprised to see the medic had a cafeteria tray pinched gingerly between two digits. The medic’s tone was so genuine and friendly that it was impossible to take offense at his words. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position as First Aid settled the tray on the overbed table. A quick glance revealed that eggs, home fries, and fruit was on the menu for breakfast. All at once, Sam was surprised to realize that he was _ravenous_. He hadn’t felt the sensation of hunger in a long time. He felt an answering swell of _relief-joy_ across the spark bond, and he tossed a smile in Bumblebee’s direction before turning back to First Aid.

“Hey, thanks buddy.” Sam said, picking up his fork. 

The medic chirped at Sam’s words, his wing flaps fluttering expressively.

“Oh, am I, Sam?” First Aid asked earnestly, “Am I your… buddy?”

Sam blinked in surprise, completely taken aback by the medic’s hopeful tone. He glanced towards Bumblebee’s holoform, looking for assistance or an explanation. Instead, the holoform just grinned back at him, motioning with his hand in a ‘ _go on then’_ gesture.

The bastard.

Sam turned back to First Aid, stumbling over his words as he replied.

“Well, I mean… sure you are. If you want to be.”

First Aid chirped again, a series of short, rolling notes, before he reached out a single digit to press against Sam’s chest.

“Yes, Sam. I would like that.” He replied, serious and sincere in equal measures.

Sam patted the digit awkwardly, “Well okay, that’s settled then.”

First Aid’s optics brightened noticeably, “Thank-you, Sam. Enjoy your breakfast… _buddy_.”

Sam huffed a laugh, shaking his head in amusement as he speared a piece of cantaloupe with his fork. First Aid walked across the medical bay, chirping expressively to himself, before stopping in front of the supplies closet at the far end of the room.

 _//Care to tell me what that was all about?//_ Sam asked, working his way through the fruit tray.

 _//First Aid has always been very literal.//_ Bumblebee replied, amusement coloring his words, _//Of all of us, he has had the hardest time adjusting to the nuances of human speech.//_

_//That explains a lot.//_

Sam turned his attention back towards his breakfast. The fruit was fresh and the home fries were that perfect blend of crispy-soft that he enjoyed. The eggs were over easy, rather than scrambled, but he ate them all the same. By the time that First Aid returned with a new bag of saline, Sam had finished every morsel of food on the tray. The medic switched out the IV bags before turning to regard him.

“Do you feel up to bathing and getting dressed? There is a change of clothing for you in the wash racks.”

Sam nodded his assent, and Bumblebee helped him off the gurney and across the hangar. It wasn’t until the scout crouched in front of the bathroom door that Sam realized he was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. After Bee settled him on his feet, Sam reached up to pat the smooth metal of his faceplates in appreciation, before he stepped through the open door. He flipped the switch on the wall by the sink and florescent light flooded the small room. Sam brushed his teeth first, scrubbing his teeth and gums, before he used the bathroom. When he finished, he kicked away his boxers and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. The fabric was halfway off when warm hands settled on his hips, causing him to startle and give an undignified squawk of surprise.

Bumblebee chuckled softly, pressing against Sam’s naked body as he pulled his shirt the rest of the way off and dropped it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Sam hissed, arousal and mortification combing to spread a blush across his face, “Hoist is _right there_.”

Bee ducked his head to tug lightly at Sam’s earlobe with his teeth, “Do you object?”

Sam groaned, low in his throat, as Bumblebee mouthed at the sensitive spot on his neck. It took a great deal of willpower for him to push the holoform away.

“Yes, I object.” Sam whispered, struggling not to dwell on the way that his dick was twitching with interest, “I am not having sex with _Fred fucking Rogers MD_ out there!”

Bumblebee grinned, his eyes bright with amusement.

“Are you sure?”

Sam groaned, his head falling back as he struggled to dreg together the last of his willpower, “If you don’t get out of here right this second, there’s going to be a picture of you in the dictionary under _justifiable homicide_.”

Bumblebee laughed aloud, before pressing a chaste kiss against Sam’s cheek.

“Raincheck?”

Sam snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, obviously, I’m not made of stone.” He replied impatiently, “Now get out.”

Bumblebee smirked at him, an indecent expression if ever there was one, before the holoform shimmered and disappeared. Sam took a moment to get his raging hormones under control and then he turned the shower to cold and stepped in. The shock of icy water down his back was an effective anaphrodisiac, and he washed as quickly as he was able. By the time that Sam was dressed, he felt far less likely to commit murder.

As Sam stepped into the hangar, he saw that Ratchet had replaced Hoist at the workbench. He turned as Sam made his way towards Bumblebee, who was resting in his alt mode beside the berth.

“Good morning, Sam. You slept well.”

“Morning Ratch.” Sam greeted good-naturedly, “Yeah, I did.”

The medic crouched down as he approached, a blue beam emanating from a node set in his helm to sweep Sam from head to foot.

“Your appetite has much improved over the last twelve hours as well. How do you feel?”

Sam shrugged, using a pinkie finger to get water out of his ear, “Good. Really good, actually.”

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, his expression one of clinical seriousness.

“You are recovering remarkably well. Your heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature are all within normal parameters. The electrochemistry of your blood has also been stable for twenty-four hours.”

“Aww, Ratch, you big flatterer.” 

The medic ex-vented a loud snort, and Sam could feel a swell of fond exasperation across their bond-space.

“Do you want that IV removed or not?” Ratchet drawled.

Sam blinked up at him in surprise, “What? Yes, definitely. Isn’t it early?”

Ratchet extended a servo towards him, and Sam clambered on immediately. The medic brought his other servo around to cup against Sam’s back, steadying him as he rose and walked across the medical bay.

“For most patients suffering persistent electrolytic imbalance, the treatment schedule is four to seven days. You, however, are not most patients. The healing factor provided by the Allspark energy has contributed greatly to your recovery.”

He set Sam down on the berth and a moment later, his holoform flickered into existence. All at once, Sam recalled First Aid’s words from the day before, and he glanced up at the medic uncertainly.

“Ratch… you know that I’m not afraid of you anymore, right?”

The medic shuttered his optics slowly, an unfathomable expression on his face.

“I am aware that my bipedal mode no longer triggers your stress response, yes.” He replied, after a moment.

Sam frowned faintly, “Then why do you still use your holoform? You don’t have to.”

Rather than reply, Ratchet gestured with a servo towards the gurney. Sam huffed a sigh, but he obediently climbed up onto the mattress before turning to sit facing the medic. Ratchet’s holoform stepped forward then, grasping Sam’s shoulder with his hand. The touch was firm and gentle. Grounding.

After a long moment, Ratchet cycled air through his vents.

“I am aware that you no longer fear me, Sam. I utilize my holoform because it makes you comfortable.”

Sam frowned deeply, but before he could reply, Ratchet continued his thought.

“I do not mean that my bipedal form makes you uncomfortable. Rather, my holoform is able to interact with you in ways that trigger the mammalian relaxation response.”

“…what?”

“In the last four minutes, your breathing has deepened, your heartbeat has decreased, and your limbic system has increased production of serotonin and dopamine.” Ratchet explained patiently, “It’s the human body’s response to a familiar touch.”

Sam blinked at the holoform in disbelief, “Are you saying that you use your holoform because you can manipulate my brain chemistry?”

“I would not put it in those words.” Ratchet replied dryly, “Humans are genetically hardwired for this type of interaction, and that is not something that I can provide in my bipedal mode.”

Sam would have felt offended, violated even, if he weren’t able to feel Ratchet’s quiet earnestness through their bond. All at once he realized that the medic lamented being unable to interact with Sam this way without his holoform. The realization softened his irritation, and Sam snorted in response.

“That’s a bit creepy, Ratchet.”

“That’s human biology, Samuel.” He returned without hesitation. The medic pulled the overbed table towards him, upon which medical supplies were already organized. With quick, efficient motions, Ratchet removed his IV—that _hurt_ —and pressed a cotton ball against the exit site.

“Press firmly.” He instructed, and Sam complied. Ratchet retrieved a butterfly bandage and, after checking to see that the bleeding had stopped, applied it to the back of Sam’s hand. The CMO made to gather up the medical supplies when he stilled, his head tilting in the manner that indicated that he was listening to his internal communications array. After a moment, Ratchet ex-vented a disapproving snort.

“Against my recommendations, Prime is on his way to see you.”

“Wait, what?” Sam asked in surprise, “Why?”

“Why else?” Ratchet asked peevishly, “To discuss the parlay.”

“But I thought you said that I wasn’t going to the parlay.”

“And unless Prime wants a mutiny on his hands, you’re not.” Ratchet replied stiffly, gathering up the medical supplies and carrying them across the hangar. Sam glanced towards Bumblebee’s alt mode.

“What crawled up his tailpipe and died?”

The Camaro rolled backwards before rapidly transforming. As soon as the last metal plates slid into place, he crouched beside the berth.

“Sam, you know that he worries.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He replied, frowning faintly, “Do you know what this is about?”

“No, I don’t, but we’re about to find out.” Bee answered, turning to regard the hangar doors. Moments later, Optimus Prime stepped into the medical bay, his entire countenance solemn and serious. He inclined his head towards Ratchet, who raised a servo and waved him off without turning to look at him. Optimus’ gaze lingered on Ratchet’s back for a long moment, and then he made his way across the hangar towards Sam.

“Good morning, Sam.” He greeted, his voice a warm baritone, “Did you sleep well?”

Sam pushed himself off the gurney, moving to stand at the edge of the berth. Optimus came to stop in front of him, crouching down so that they were at an eye-level with one another.

“What’s going on, Optimus?” Sam asked, in lieu of an answer, “No one will tell me anything.”

“You’ve been told all that you need to know.” Ratchet called across the hangar sharply. 

Optimus glanced towards his Chief Medical Officer, disapproval evident in his expression, before looking back at Sam.

“I have accepted Thundercracker’s request for parlay. We will meet at three o’clock this afternoon on the southern airfield.”

Sam frowned, “Has he told you what they want?”

Optimus regarded him for a long moment, as though he were carefully considering his answer.

“They wish to discuss you—more specifically, your role as Allspark and Prime.”

He narrowed his eyes at the Autobot leader, “I’m not the Allspark.”

“Yes, Sam. I know.” Optimus reassured him.

Sam folded his arms over his chest, well aware of how defensive it made him appear, “I want to go.”

There was a loud _clang_ of metal against metal as Ratchet slammed the equipment that he had been working on against the workbench. The medic turned to face them, his expression openly angry.

“Sam, I’ve already told you—“

Optimus turned to regard the medic, his expression censorious and disapproving. Ratchet narrowed his optics at the Autobot leader, staring at him pointedly—clearly, they were having a heated discussion over comms. After a moment, some of the tension left Ratchet’s frame, and Sam knew that the discussion had not concluded in his favor.

“Sam.” Optimus rumbled, turning his attention back towards him, “I understand your desire to be present at the parlay, but the risk is too great.”

“Fine, then I want to be outside of the Creator bond.”

“No.” Ratchet replied flatly, approaching the berth, “It is likely that either Thundercracker or Skywarp have Creator programming.”

Sam frowned up at the medic, “If they had it, they would have already used it.”

To his surprise, it was Optimus who replied.

“That is highly unlikely. None of the command trine would make a move against Megatron.” He refuted, shaking his helm minutely, “And we know that Starscream has Creator programming—it would follow that his trinemates have access to the same.” 

Sam’s frown deepened, “There’s no way that Starscream is a Creator. He’s about as nurturing as a brick to the face.”

Ratchet ex-vented a snort, coming to stand beside his Prime.

“Starscream was a Vosian prince, he has on-lined many mechanoids.” Ratchet said, waving his servo impatiently, “It is most likely how Megatron got ahold of Creator programming in the first place.”

Sam glanced at the medic in surprise, “What?”

“As you know, Megatron was on-lined as a gladiator-build. Creator programming was not part of his build-class.” Optimus explained patiently. Something about the Autobot leader’s words triggered a memory, and he glanced up at him.

“Is it true that he was sparked without written language protocols?”

Optimus inclined his helm gravely, “Yes, it is true.”

Sam’s frown returned and he worried the inside of his lip with his teeth. After a moment, he asked, “So what’s the end game here? They want to parlay, but I’m not going to agree to anything they want.”

Almost before he finished speaking, he was aware of the vulnerable tone in his voice—he sounded uncertain and afraid, even to his own ears. Optimus’ optics softened minutely and, after a moment, he felt a familiar _pinging_ sensation. Sam allowed the connection to blossom to life between them, and then Optimus was there in his mind. His presence was as ethereal as he remembered—brilliant white and beautiful—and Sam felt himself relaxing at the quiet thrum of _reassurance_ that he could feel through their connection.

_//You have my word that I will not agree to any demand that involves you without your express contribution and consent.//_

Sam sighed softly, his head pitching forward. He knew that Optimus wouldn’t have used him as a bargaining chip, but it was comforting to hear his reassurance all the same. After a moment, he felt Optimus mental presence brush gently against Sam’s mind. It was a tender gesture, one filled with affection, and he smiled faintly in response. Seemingly encouraged by his reaction, Optimus _shifted_ and familiar warmth flooded across his mind—

Sam stumbled backwards, his eyes snapping open, “ _Stop it!_ ”

He felt Optimus’ surprise and confusion, but it was too late. Even as the sensation faded away, Sam was lost to the flashback—Megatron’s presence filling his mind, intense pleasure and choking fear mingling together, and then a culmination of physical expression.

Then, Megatron’s satisfied rumble–

_“There is no shame in accepting what your Master offers.”_

Sam felt Optimus jerk away in shock, the connection between them snapping closed. Sam gasped for breath, his heart jackrabbiting painfully in his throat. Then, Ratchet’s mental presence was there, brushing away the last remnants of the flashback, but it didn’t matter. The flashback wasn’t the cause of his distress.

_They know._

Sam gasped desperately, hunched over as he tried to pull air into his burning lungs. Shame and fear and self-loathing crashed over one another, blotting out all rational thought. The only thing that he was capable of understanding was that, no matter how he struggled, _he couldn’t breathe._

He was distantly aware of their urgent voices, barely audible over the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears, and then Bumblebee was there. His bonded’s presence filled his mind, eminently calming and familiar.

_//Breathe, Sam.//_

_I can’t, I can’t breathe—!_

_//Yes, you can. Here, feel me.//_

Suddenly, warm arms wrapped around him, pulling him back against a broad chest. Sam struggled in fear, kicking out at the person behind him, but then Bumblebee’s voice was in his mind again.

_// **Feel me** , Sam.//_

And Sam did. Through the haze of his panic, Sam could feel the person behind him draw in a deep breath—his chest expanding as he did so—and then he released it slowly. The stimuli filtered into Sam’s brain in fits and starts, and he struggled to pull air into his spasming lungs.

_//Good, just like that. Try again, slowly—//_

As the person behind him inhaled, Sam sucked air in through his nose, and as the person exhaled, his breath stuttered out through his mouth. He felt a warm pulse of approval over the lightheadedness that tingled through him. They stayed there like that, mirroring each other, until Sam’s breathing had evened out. No longer at immediate risk of hyperventilating, Sam sank to his knees onto the berth. Bumblebee’s holoform—and it was Bumblebee’s holoform, he realized belatedly—followed him down, pressed closely against him.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassment and shame burning through him. Bumblebee’s mental presence wrapped around him, warm and gentle and familiar. Although he did not speak in words, Sam could understand the soothing pulse that accompanied his touch. The complete, unconditional acceptance that Sam felt made his eyes burn with fresh tears. He knelt there for a long while, crying quietly as Bumblebee embraced him. Eventually, Bumblebee began to murmur at him softly, English and Cybertronian intermixed together. His voice was like a metronome, steady and grounding.

Sam listened in silence, his eyes closed and his hands clutching the arm that wrapped around his chest. It was a long time before he could open his eyes again and face the reality of the medical bay. When he finally managed to do so, he was met with the sight of Bumblebee’s bipedal mode. The familiar face was less than a meter away, Bee’s brilliant blue optics roving over him. Sam glanced around, surprised to see that they were completely alone. The hangar was empty and the lights were dimmed.

“They are respecting your privacy.” Bumblebee explained softly, as his holoform tucked his chin over Sam’s left shoulder.

Sam’s breath shuddered out of him. He couldn’t imagine what they must think—

“They think you’re brave, and resilient, and stronger than you realize.” 

Sam glanced back up at his bonded’s face, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Then they’re going to be very disappointed.”

Bumblebee whistled at him, a mournful series of clicks and high-pitched tones. The scout reached out a large servo, cupping it against Sam’s side.

“They aren’t wrong, Sam. You’re the strongest person I know—Autobot or otherwise.” He murmured seriously, like a promise, “You’re going to get through this.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to his bonded’s face, and the earnestness that he saw there caused a spear of pain to lodge itself in his chest. He could feel that the tears had finally spilled over, but he was powerless to stop them.

“So it’s true,” Sam whispered brokenly, “infiltrators really are excellent liars.”

Bumblebee made a low, pained sound, but he did not reply with words. Instead, his mental presence wrapped around Sam’s like a blanket, and the scout let his _sincerity_ and _earnestness_ speak on his behalf. Sam could not reply around the emotion lodged in his throat. Instead, he leaned against his bonded, in both body and mind, and accepted the comfort that he offered.

* * *

Thundercracker and Skywarp transformed in mid-air, landing in their bipedal modes at the southernmost edge of the tarmac. To Thundercracker’s surprise, only Optimus Prime and the Autobot medic stood waiting to greet them. He glanced around the wide, empty expanse of airfield, taken aback by the lack of reinforcements. The Seekers had fully expected Prime to assemble at least his senior staff to receive them—and a full show of military might would not have been unprecedented.

His attention was drawn back to the matter at hand as Optimus Prime strode towards them. The Autobot leader’s battle mask was engaged, but otherwise he showed no sign of aggression. Thundercracker stepped forward, crossing his arm over his chassis and bending at the waist.

“Thank-you for receiving us, Prime.”

Optimus stared at him for a long moment, his expression surprisingly cold. When he failed to return the greeting, Thundercracker felt Skywarp shift on his pedes behind him.

 _//What a warm reception.//_ His trinemate sent dryly.

Although Thundercracker could do without Skywarp’s commentary, he too was taken aback by the Prime’s unwelcoming demeanor. It was Prime who had agreed to parlay, after all. After the silence had stretched to the point of awkwardness, Thundercracker cleared his intakes and spoke.

“Lord Megatron desires—“

“What Megatron desires is no longer of any consequence to me.” Optimus interrupted him, his tone midnight black, “You can inform your Master that there will be no parlay.”

Thundercracker was unable to keep the surprise off his faceplates, but he quickly schooled his features. Something had obviously changed since the Prime had consented to their meeting. Behind him, Skywarp’s fields flared with uncertainty and anxiety.

“I am sorry to hear that, Prime.” Thundercracker replied, drawing on all of his long-forgotten courtier training, “I had hoped that this parlay would lead—“

“You may tell Megatron that the time for clemency has passed.” Optimus rumbled, interrupting him for a second time, “If he chooses to surrender and be judged for his crimes, then I will be merciful. If he persists in this folly of a war, then there shall be no quarter given—for either him or those who follow his command.”

Thundercracker could not prevent the jerk of surprise at the Prime’s words. In all of their millions of years of conflict, never before had he issued such a proclamation. Skywarp’s anxiety sharpened into fear, and he could sense his trinemate’s desire to transform. Realizing the precariousness of their situation, Thundercracker bowed stiffly at the waist and turned to leave.

“Thundercracker, hold.” Prime called, and the Seeker glanced back in surprise. The Autobot leader crossed the space between them, to stand directly in front of him. His optics roved over Thundercracker’s face, as though trying to assess some measure of him, before he spoke.

“I would be grateful if you would pass along a personal message to your leader.”

Thundercracker nodded minutely, keeping his expression and his electromagnetic fields neutral with great effort.

“You may tell him that I am in full possession of the facts, that I know what even his senior officers do not. If there is anything left of Megatronus within him, if he has any shred of affection left for me, then he will heed my words. If not, then I swear by my spark, I will have justice for his crimes—in this life or the next.”

By the time that Prime had finished speaking, his voice was a low growl. Thundercracker stepped back reflexively, deeply shocked by the ichor in the other’s tone. Without waiting for the Seeker to respond, Optimus turned on his pede and strode away. As he walked passed his Chief Medical Officer, the Autobot turned and followed behind him. Neither of them gave the two Seekers a backwards glance.

Thundercracker turned to look at Skywarp, who was plainly anxious to catch air. With a silent command, they transformed into their alt modes and streaked through the late afternoon sky, leaving Diego Garcia behind them.


	16. Chapter 16

In the aftermath of Sam’s panic attack, he and Bumblebee stayed in the medical bay for hours. It took a long while for his choking grief to subside, and in the wake of his intense emotions, he was left feeling strangely empty. It was a sense of apathy that he had not felt since he had first learned about the Allspark energy affecting his physiology. The stark numbness was an almost welcome sensation, given its familiarity, and Sam could not muster up the energy to be concerned.

As soon as he was reasonably calm, Bumblebee presented his servo towards him. Sam understood at once what he was offering, and he slowly clambered to his feet before stepping onto the large, metal palm. Bumblebee brought him close to his chest, pausing only to stroke his digits down Sam’s back, before he transformed around him. Although he was well used to the process by now, Sam still exhaled a shaky breath when he found himself in the familiar driver’s seat seconds later. Bumblebee darkened the window tint as soon as he finished transforming, and then the multi-media interface brightened to illuminate the cabin. The menu flipped through options of its own accord before settling on Sirius XM radio. A moment later, the sound of classic rock filled the silence.

Sam leaned back against the seat, which reclined slightly to accommodate him. They stayed there like that, listening to the Top Hits of the 80s and 90s, without speaking a word to one another. Bumblebee’s mental presence was close, occasionally brushing over his mind, but he did not crowd against him. By the time that Sam felt marginally closer to normal, his stomach was panging with hunger. A glance at the digital display revealed that it was just after noon.

“Would you like some lunch?” Bumblebee asked, voice pitched low so as not to startle him.

Sam looked at the dashboard for a long moment. Eventually, he replied, “Yeah, I could eat.”

Bumblebee whistled at him, a single, rolling note of approval.

“Would you like to go to the mess? Or would you prefer to have your meal brought here?”

Sam considered the question before answering. On one hand, he had neither the desire nor the energy to be around people. On the other hand, he had been cooped up in the medical bay for days with only a few, brief respites. After the events of that morning, Sam was suddenly keen to be anywhere else but there.

“The mess, please.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the window tint vanished and Bumblebee’s engine turned over. The Camaro accelerated towards the hangar doors, before navigating through West Quad. Although it was relatively quiet in the Autobot section of the Hive, they passed Sunstreaker and Sideswipe near the command center and Jolt nearer Prime’s office. As they turned onto the bridge, however, activity around them markedly increased. Civilian administrative staff, soldiers in combat gear, and officers in dress uniforms streamed along the corridor on the side designated for pedestrian traffic. Bumblebee drove at a leisurely pace, stopping only to let a camo green golf cart pass on their left.

A short while later, he pulled up in front of the North Quad entrance and opened the driver’s side door. By the time that he climbed out of the cab, Bumblebee’s holoform had shimmered to life beside him. Sam leaned back against the doorframe, taking in the sight of the familiar figure. Bee stood less than a foot away, his posture loose and relaxed, with an easy-going look on his face.

“Ready to go?” Bee asked.

“Yeah, thanks.” Sam replied quietly.

They made their way together through the North Quad towards the mess hall. They nodded at the occasional stranger who greeted them, but otherwise they were silent. The clamor of animated talking and the clinking of dishware spilled into the corridor as they approached the mess. They walked into the hall and made their way towards the galley, queueing at the back of the line. Bumblebee picked up a cafeteria tray from the stack beside them and handed it to him. They were halfway down the galley, passed the pasta salads and the sandwich bar, when Sam remembered that he was on a diet plan. He frowned faintly, turning his attention towards the Creator bond. He could feel Ratchet’s presence, distant and distracted, but accessible to him all the same. He waffled for a long moment, uncertain how to broach such a mundane topic after all that had happened earlier. Eventually, he brushed against Ratchet’s presence, sending a wordless pulse of _inquiry_ in his direction.

Almost immediately, he felt the weight of Ratchet’s regard from across their bond-space. Although his mental presence was patient, Sam was sure that he wasn’t misunderstanding the faint exasperation that the medic was projecting.

 _//You are being very loud.//_ Ratchet explained, as soon as the thought had crossed Sam’s mind. The medic’s dry tone caused the corners of his lips to quirk up, despite himself.

 _//Sorry.//_ He replied, glancing at the main course options that he was steadily approaching. Trying for nonchalance, he asked casually, _//I’m at the mess. Is there anything I can’t eat?//_

 _//You may eat whatever you wish, so long as you meet or exceed 2200 calories per day.//_ Ratchet replied at once. The words were said matter-of-factly, delivered with his usual air of medical professionalism. Something about his tone, however, caused heavy emotion to wedge itself in Sam’s chest. It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the lunch entrees a short while later that Sam realized the feeling was appreciation. There hadn’t been an iota of sympathy or pity in Ratchet’s voice—the medic had treated him exactly as he always had. The realization warmed Sam from the inside out, and he gestured for sweet and spicy chicken with more vim than strictly necessary.

After Sam’s meal was paid for—something that Bumblebee had arranged with the clerk, with assurances that Sam would get his identification badge back soon—they made their way to a quiet corner of the mess hall. Sam pulled out a chair and sat down, and Bumblebee followed suit. The holoform watched him with undisguised interest, and Sam couldn’t help the faint smile that quirked his lips.

“It’s not as bad as Chicken 65.” Sam murmured, remembering the first time that Bumblebee had vicariously experienced Sam’s penchant for spicy food.

Bumblebee’s face warmed with amusement, “Your tolerance for capsaicin is impressive.”

Sam huffed a soft laugh, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork and popping it into his mouth. The yellow sauce was nuanced and layered—sweetness flooded his mouth, chased immediately by a modest burst of heat.

“This isn’t that hot.”

“It is far more agreeable.” Bee conceded, leaning back in his chair as he watched Sam eat.

The scout’s words did an effective job of distracting Sam from the dark cloud hanging over him. He glanced across the table at him in surprise as he finished swallowing a mouthful of rice.

“Can you taste it?” He asked curiously.

The holoform tilted his head considerately, “Yes, I believe so. Although the sensations are foreign to me, I can infer which is spicy and which is sweet.”

“I think I understand what you mean.” Sam said, after a moment, “When Megatron showed me about energon, my brain tried to interpret the sensation in terms of food, even though the analogy was off.”

At Megatron’s name, the holoform’s expression tightened minutely, but he replied without hesitation.

“I’ll show you myself, the next time that I re-fuel. I would have showed you before, but it never occurred to me that you might be curious.”

Sam snorted quietly, stabbing a piece of chicken and swirling it in the sauce, “It never occurred to me to be curious until Megatron showed me.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence stilled for a fraction of a second, and then it was brushing against Sam’s mind. The touch was feather-soft, almost contrite, and Sam glanced up in surprise.

“I’m here, you know.” Bee said, so quietly that Sam had to strain to hear him over the noisy din of the mess hall, “If you ever want to talk about it.”

Sam looked at the holoform for a long moment, aware of the way that his heart was starting to beat harder in his chest, before he raised his shoulders in a shrug.

“I don’t, but thank-you.” Sam replied, keeping his tone even with some effort, “If that ever changes, I’ll let you know.”

Bumblebee nodded at him before changing the subject with all the grace of a water buffalo, “What’s your favorite spicy food?”

Sam’s eyebrows quirked of their own accord, but he appreciated what Bee was doing.

“Probably this.” He replied, allowing the conversation to be re-directed, “Spicy diced chicken is hotter, but that’s good too. There was an Afghan restaurant in Tranquility called Afghan Kebab Express—“

“On Central? Yes, I remember it.” Bumblebee said.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Sam agreed, tilting his head curiously, “I don’t remember going there with you.”

Bumblebee’s lips quirked, his expression equal parts chagrined and amused, “Your father took you there four days after you posted the eBay listing.”

Sam stared at him in surprise for the space of a heartbeat, and then he actually laughed. It was a weak sound, a shadow of its former self, but his amusement was genuine.

“Yeah, I guess he did. I had gotten an A on a history exam, the first one I needed for Dad to go splits on a car.” Sam said, his voice soft with recollection, “They had this chicken over rice dish that was out of this world. It was really hot, but it came with a white sauce that balanced it out. Dad and I went there a lot before it closed.”

Sam’s voice trailed off as he finished speaking, suddenly blindsided by a tidal wave of guilt. In all the time that he had been on the _Nemesis_ , and in all the time since he had been rescued, his parents had barely crossed his mind.

“Oh my God,” He murmured to himself, aghast, “I am such a shit person.”

“No you’re not.” Bumblebee said sharply, reaching out a hand to clasp Sam’s wrist, “You’ve been through a traumatic experience. There is no shame in compartmentalization.”

“Bee…” Sam said, barely able to get the words out around the lump in his throat, “Are they okay? Do they know?”

Bumblebee’s expression was solemn, and he gave Sam’s wrist a gentle squeeze.

“Your parents are alright, they’re living in Arizona now.” He replied, his voice calming, “Yes, they know about what happened. Optimus told them after the attack.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, his appetite ruined, “Do they know I’m back?”

Bumblebee nodded minutely, “Yes, they do.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. His parents must be having a coronary right now—to know that he was alive and safe, and not be able to see him. After a long moment, Sam forced himself to look across the table at the holoform.

“Why won’t Optimus let them come?”

Confusion flickered across Bumblebee’s face, followed quickly by understanding.

“Prime has not forbidden them from coming, but neither has he extended them an invitation.” Bumblebee explained patiently, “You have the right to decide when you want to see them.”

“Oh.” Sam replied. He stared at the table in front of him for a long moment before asking, “Do they want to come?”

“Your mother has called Dave Carter four times a day, every day, since you’ve returned.” Bumblebee said, amusement in his voice, “But the more important question is: do _you_ want them to come?”

Sam frowned faintly, stymied by the question. The idea of being fussed at by his mother was deeply unpleasant for a number of reasons, the fact that he did not want her to see him like this chief among them. However, the thought of his parents’ grief at not being able to see him was far more intolerable, by at least an order of magnitude.

“Yeah, I think so.” He replied slowly, “I don’t want them to be upset.”

Bumblebee nodded, “Alright then. We’ll take care of it.”

Sam nodded faintly, a gesture of acknowledgement and appreciation both, before he set down his fork. Bumblebee’s eyes fell to his plate as concern furrowed his brow. Sam had barely eaten a thing. 

“I’ll get you a take-away container.” Bumblebee said at once, pushing to his feet. Before Sam could respond, the holoform was striding across the mess hall, weaving around tables and patrons with the fluidity of a dancer. Sam watched him go, abruptly feeling exhausted as the enormity of all that had happened finally caught up with him. Bumblebee returned a short while later, carrying the promised take-away container and plastic cutlery. Sam mustered up the energy to scrape the remains of his dinner into the cardboard box.

“Would you like to go?” Bumblebee asked, his gaze sharp and astute.

Sam sighed softly, pushing the chair away from the table as he stood, “Yeah.”

Bumblebee nodded, picking up the boxed leftovers and gesturing for Sam to go ahead. Together they walked out of the mess hall, back into the corridor. It was quieter than it had been when they arrived, and they made their way through North Quad without being accosted by well-meaning strangers. As they passed the Officer’s Section on the way to the quad entrance, Sam slowed to a stop. Bumblebee pulled up short beside him, glancing at Sam in surprise.

“I want to move back into my apartment.” Sam said abruptly.

“Well, if you want—“ Bumblebee began, but Sam had already started walking towards the residential section. Bumblebee had to jog several paces in order to catch up with him. They walked the length of one long hallway before he looked sidelong at Sam, “What brought this on?”

Sam shrugged, “Ratchet removed my IV. There’s no reason for me to stay in the medical bay.”

“That’s true.” Bumblebee said slowly, before he asked with delicate care, “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Bumblebee did not reply, but Sam could feel his conflicted feelings—cautious optimism warring against concern. After several moments of vicariously experiencing the scout’s anxiety, Sam scoffed softly.

“I’m not going to break another mirror, Bumblebee.” 

The holoform looked at him sharply, a disapproving frown pulling at his features.

“I didn’t suggest that you would.” He rebutted firmly, “You spent two years in near-constant isolation. Are you ready to be alone again?”

Sam narrowed his eyes, inexplicably irritated by Bumblebee’s concern.

“Am I ready to be alone again? I don’t know.” He replied scathingly, “But I _am_ ready to sleep in my own bed, and use my own shower, and decide what to eat and when to eat it. And I’m definitely ready to get back into my own space, with a front door that locks, so that if I want to be alone, I can be alone.”

Without waiting for Bumblebee to reply, Sam continued down the corridor in the direction of his apartment. The holoform followed after him in silence, his mental presence just as inscrutable as his physical manifestation. When they arrived at Sam’s apartment a short while later, he was forced to wait by the door as Bumblebee caught up to him. It was a minor indignity, but it chaffed at Sam all the same. As soon as the holoform pulled open the door for him, he stepped into his apartment with a huff.

“When can I have my badge replaced?” He asked stiffly, breaking the silence between them.

“Dave had it printed this morning. I’ll ask him bring it over.” Bee replied, his earlier disapproval no longer evident in his tone or expression.

“Thank-you.”

“Do you… would you like some privacy?” Bumblebee asked, after a pregnant pause.

Sam glanced at him in surprise. The holoform was standing beside the doorway, obviously hesitant and uncertain. The sight made of him caused Sam’s irritation soften into regret. He knew that the morning had been difficult for Bumblebee as well. 

“I’m sorry for being an asshole, Bee.” He said, moving to stand in front of the holoform, “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Sam.” Bumblebee replied sincerely, “I’m your bonded, not your keeper. You don’t need my permission or approval to move back into your apartment.”

Sam’s frown returned, turning down the corners of his mouth, “So I don’t have either, then?”

“I didn’t mean that.” Bumblebee replied contritely, “Of course you do, on both counts.”

Sam sighed, running his good hand over his face. It was becoming readily apparent that neither of them were at their best.

“Look, I’m going to lay on my couch and watch garbage television until I fall asleep or the Seekers attack, whichever happens first. You’re welcome to join me, if you want.”

Bumblebee looked at him in surprise, before nodding slowly, “Yes, I would like that.”

“Great.” Sam said, toeing off his shoes as he walked across the room. Bumblebee placed the take-out container on the side table before joining him. Sam sat heavily on the couch, reaching up with one hand to pull the throw blanket into his lap as he grabbed the remote from the coffee table. Bumblebee looked at him for a long moment before sitting down beside him. Sam flipped through the channels in silence, before he offered up an olive branch in the form of a banal question.

“Did I miss any good shows or movies that I should catch up on?”

Bumblebee glanced at him, fond amusement creasing his face at Sam’s attempt at redirection, “Netflix made a Witcher series that’s popular. I think you’d like it.”

“Really? I beat the Wild Hunt about a dozen times.”

“I am well aware.” Bumblebee replied dryly.

“Who plays Geralt?”

“Henry Cavill.”

“That seems like a strange choice.” Sam said, already navigating into the Netflix menu. Bumblebee laughed softly, raising a shoulder in a shrug.

“I can’t say one way or the other, but the reviews are favorable.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Sam replied honestly, shifting to pull the blanket around him. Bumblebee glanced down, his expression inscrutable, as he raised his arm to pull Sam snugly against his side. Sam sighed softly, letting his head settle against the holoform’s chest, as Bumblebee’s hand trailed down to trace an invisible pattern into Sam’s bicep through the blanket. As _The Witcher_ began playing, Bumblebee repeated the pattern again and again, his touch feather-light and gentle. It was a soothing sensation, and Sam found himself watching the opening scene through half-lidded eyes.

He was asleep before Geralt made it to Blaviken.

* * *

A loud chime cut through the haze of Sam’s dreams, causing him to jerk awake in confusion. It took a long moment for him to realize that he was lying on the couch in his apartment. He sat up slowly, pushing the blanket aside as he blinked blearily at his surroundings. The television was off, and the living room was still and quiet. He twisted, trying to find Bumblebee’s holoform, when he realized that he was alone. The chime sounded a second time, causing him to startle in surprise. As the realization that someone was ringing his doorbell filtered into Sam’s sleep-addled brain, Bumblebee’s presence brushed against him reassuringly.

Sam pushed to his feet, stumbling across the living room towards the entryway. When he pulled the heavy door open, he froze in surprise. Optimus’ holoform stood in the corridor, holding a cafeteria tray and wearing an expression of solemn resolve. Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest before quickening into double-time at the sight of the Autobot leader.

“Good evening, Sam.”

Sam had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could reply.

“Evening, Optimus.”

“I had hoped that we could speak privately. May I come in?”

Sam could feel the flush spread across his cheeks, heating his face. As the silence between them lengthened from seconds to moments, Optimus inclined his head.

“Of course, it is your prerogative to refuse.”

The quiet regret on the holoform’s face spurned Sam to step aside to allow Optimus to enter.

“No, it’s… it’s alright. It’s fine. Please, come in.” He murmured, gesturing towards the living room. Optimus regarded him for a long moment before making his way into Sam’s apartment. Sam let the door shut behind him, taking a moment to steel himself as he flicked on the overhead lights. When he turned around again, he saw that Optimus had placed the cafeteria tray on the coffee table. The holoform was standing quietly at the foot of the couch, facing him with a pensive look on its face.

“I’ve brought your identification badge and your cell phone.” Optimus said, breaking the silence that stretched between them.

“Thank-you.” Sam replied softly, shuffling forward until he could glance down at the cafeteria tray. As promised, his phone and badge were tucked beside the plate of lo mein. 

Optimus regarded him for a long moment, his eyes roving over Sam’s face. There was something paradoxical about his countenance, which was equal parts uncertain and resolved. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets, and forced himself to return Optimus’ gaze.

“Sam—“

“No offense, Optimus, but I don’t want to talk about this with you.” Sam interrupted tiredly, “And this time, you aren’t going to goad me into it.”

Optimus’ expression softened, “You do not need to talk, but I hope that you will listen.”

Sam sighed softly, gesturing in a weary ‘go ahead’ sort of way as he sat on the couch. After a moment, Optimus sat down on the coffee table in front of him, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. The holoform looked as it always did, solemn and dignified and serious, but somehow it looked more human than ever before. He was silent for a long while, and Sam knew that he was putting his thoughts in order. 

“Ratchet and I met with Thundercracker and Skywarp this afternoon. I have informed them that there will be no parlay.”

Sam stared at the holoform in stunned disbelief. Whatever he had expected Optimus to say, that certainly had not been it.

“I—what? Why not?”

“You know why not, Sam.”

Sam felt his flush deepen to a brilliant crimson, “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you, I am.”

“Optimus, come on.” Sam pleaded, hating the waver in his voice, “You can’t turn down a parlay because some bad shit happened. What if this is your chance to end the war? What if this is your chance for _peace_?”

“Sam.” Optimus interrupted him gently, “There can never be peace—true, everlasting peace—without accountability or justice, without _integrity_.”

The last word was a low rumble, as though it pained Optimus to say it. Sam stared incredulously at the holoform, vaguely aware that his heart was pounding against his ribcage.

“Optimus, I can’t be the reason for more war.”

The holoform sighed heavily, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Sam, you are not the cause for our continued conflict. What Megatron did—“ Optimus cut himself off, his face darkening with emotion, “I do not believe you understand the enormity of what was done to you.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the holoform, “I know exactly what was done to me, thanks.”

“Forgive me, Sam.” Optimus replied, his voice conciliatory, “I was not speaking in absolute terms, rather I was speaking from the perspective of Cybertronian laws and customs.”

It took a great deal of fortitude, but Sam forced himself to meet Optimus’ gaze, “I can’t imagine… _that…_ is viewed any more or less favorably on Cybertron than it is on Earth.”

Optimus hesitated, his expression openly conflicted.

“Sam, you were a prisoner of war and a civilian. Although Megatron has tortured non-combatants in the past, he is generally less inclined to do so. I had hoped—foolishly, I now realize—that your newspark status would stay his hand if he wished to make an example of you.”

Sam frowned in confusion, “But I’m not a newspark, I’m—I _was_ nineteen years old.”

“Although you are an adult, by your society’s standards, you are a newborn by our own. Your neural connections have not matured and your Creator bond is still active. It is… _unfathomable_ for Megatron to have done what he did to you.”

Optimus’ words only served to deepen Sam’s confusion. At his perplexed expression, Optimus gathered himself with visible effort and tried again.

“I do not mean that what he did was abhorrent—although, of course, it was—rather, you register as a newspark in every conceivable way that matters. It should have been unthinkable for him to abuse you, as he did. As you know, newsparks are precious in our society. They were so, even before the start of the Great War. The nurturing and development of a sparkling is hard-coded into a Creator mecha’s core programming, but all Cybertronians are driven to protect our young.”

“But I’m human.”

Optimus sighed, a soft, weary sound, “I know, Sam, but our programming does not differentiate between you and any other newspark.”

Sam sat back against the couch, frowning at the Autobot leader, “Why are you telling me this?”

Optimus’ countenance shifted, his weariness and uncertainty hardening to something like grim determination.

“I share this information with you for two reasons. First, so you understand why I refused to parlay with the Seekers. So long as Megatron is their leader, there can be no peace between Autobots and the Decepticons. I will accept nothing less than his unconditional surrender to the rule of Cybertronian law.

Second, I want you to understand that none of this was your fault. For millions of years, I have deluded myself into believing that Megatron was misguided and radicalized by his fight against classism. I wanted to believe that he was still acting in—what he believed to be—Cybertron’s best interests. I can no longer afford the luxury of my naivety.”

Sam felt chilled by the somber note of finality in the Autobot leader’s voice.

“Nothing has changed, Sam.” Optimus said gently, seeming to sense Sam’s growing upset, “We will continue as we always have: protecting humans against Decepticon incursions, advocating for peace and prosperity between our peoples, and granting clemency to those willing to renounce Megatron’s leadership. The only difference is Megatron himself. I see now that there is no redeeming him, for he does not wish to be redeemed.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly exhausted despite his earlier rest.

“Don’t forget who you are Optimus.” He murmured, after a long moment of silence, “You are compassionate and wise and patient and merciful and forgiving. Don’t lose that, no matter what—it’s why we deserve to win this war.”

Sam felt their knees knock together as the holoform shifted forward, and then Optimus’ warm hands settled on his shoulders. He opened his eyes in surprise, glancing up at the holoform who had leaned close to him.

“You honor me, Samuel Witwicky.” Optimus murmured, his voice unusually emotive, “The purity of your intention, despite all that you have endured, is truly humbling.”

Sam swallowed hard, unable to reply around the lump in his throat. He raised a hand, resting it against Optimus’ own where it clasped his shoulder. They sat there like that, in mutual affection and understanding, for a long while. Eventually, Optimus sighed in regret, withdrawing his hands after giving Sam’s shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Ratchet has been pinging me for the last ten minutes. He wishes me to remind you that you must eat.”

Sam turned his attention inwards, suddenly aware of the impatient edge of Ratchet’s mental presence.

“I’ll try.” Sam replied dryly, for both Optimus’ and Ratchet’s benefit.

“Thank-you.” Optimus replied, before the regretful look on his face deepened, “Sam, I wish I could stay longer, but I must debrief my senior staff.”

“About your meeting with Thundercracker and Skywarp?” He asked, anxiety curdling in his gut. When Optimus nodded, Sam bit the inside of his lip as he managed to ask, “What are you going to tell them?”

Optimus looked confused for a brief moment, and then comprehension dawned on his face.

“Your secrets are not mine to tell, Sam.” Optimus rumbled, like a promise, “Neither Bumblebee, Ratchet, nor myself will betray your confidence.”

Sam nodded faintly, unable to reply around the appreciation and grief that suddenly choked him. Optimus hesitated, looking at him with indefinable emotion, before he reached out to clasp a hand against the back of Sam’s head. It was a tender gesture, paternal and affectionate, and Sam glanced up at him. Optimus held his gaze for a long moment, communicating more with his silence than he had all evening.

Then, a moment later, he was gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for your continued enthusiasm and support. It means more to me than I can say! As a fun note, I found out recently that the 49'ers made it to the Superbowl this year. You had better believe that will be making its way into this story in a chapter or two!

Thundercracker banked as he approached the _Nemesis_ , adjusting his telemetry in order to align with the flight deck. Skywarp was in position on his right flank, in Vic formation, flying in perfect synchronization. As they approached the warship, Thundercracker switched from his encoded frequency to the general communications channel. The switch resulted in a flurry of incoming _pings_ and status queries from the Armada. Starscream’s messages were priority coded and flashed across his visual display with signifiers of the Decepticon Air Commander.

 _//That didn’t take long.//_ Skywarp said dryly, over the command trine’s private channel.

Thundercracker grimaced internally as he throttled down, rapidly decelerating as he crossed the threshold of the open-air hangar. He could see that a welcome party of curious airframes had already assembled—Acid Storm, Blitzwing, Dirge, and Slipstream chief among them. Schooling both his expression and his electromagnetic field with great care, Thundercracker transformed and landed on the flight deck in his bipedal mode. 

“Welcome back, Thundercracker.” Acid Storm greeted amiably, “Good flight?”

“The flight was fine.” He replied tersely as Skywarp landed beside him.

“Prime didn’t blast you out of the sky, then?” Blitzwing asked with a cackle. 

Without replying to the triple-changer, Thundercracker strode towards the flight deck entrance, unceremoniously pushing through the assembled jets and Seekers. Slipstream flicked her wings expressively as he approached, her arms folded across her chest.

“You haven’t sent a status report.” She observed, like an accusation.

Thundercracker turned his helm minutely in order to regard her. Slipstream was ruthless and cunning, and he took nothing that she said at face value. He lifted his wings, flaring them subtly in a threat display born of sheer impatience. She raised a brow ridge, surprised but not intimidated in the least.

“I report to my trine leader, not to you.” He replied coldly, optics narrowed in her direction. After the disaster that was the failed parlay, Thundercracker was not in the mood for anyone’s slag—least of all, Slipstream’s.

“Well, do not let me keep you from reporting to our Air Commander.” She replied silkily, gesturing with a servo towards the hangar doors, “When you have the time, Lord Megatron would also like to be debriefed.”

“Aww, c’mon TC, not even a hint?” Dirge wheedled, “Did they agree to it? I kind of miss the little guy.”

Thundercracker could not keep the flare of annoyance out of his fields at Dirge’s question. Rather than deigning to answer him, however, he pushed past the smaller jet and strode towards the hangar doors without another word. Skywarp followed behind him, his fields relaxed and unperturbed. The realization sharpened Thundercracker’s annoyance to the point of genuine irritation.

Together they walked through the _Nemesis_ in silence. Starscream _pinged_ him for the fourth time since they had arrived, and it took a great deal of restraint to send only a wordless acknowledgement in response. It was dark and quiet as they walked, making their way deeper into the bowels of the warship. As they were still on high alert due to the defection, the corridor was illuminated by only the faint red glow of emergency lighting. They did not pass anyone as they walked towards Starscream’s athenaeum, and as such, they arrived in short order. The door opened at Thundercracker’s touch, and together he and Skywarp stepped into the reading room.

Starscream glanced towards them as they entered, irritation written all over his faceplates. He was sitting in a high-backed chair, surrounded by an assortment of datapads and dated tomes. As Thundercracker and Skywarp stopped in front of him, Starscream tossed the pad that he hadn’t been reading onto the desk in front of him.

“ _Well?_ ” Starscream demanded, his voice equally peremptory and impatient. 

“Prime refused to parlay.” Thundercracker said without preamble. Starscream’s brow ridges rose, his faceplates twisting into an expression of disdain.

“What do you mean he refused to parlay? It’s _Prime._ ”

Thundercracker lifted his pauldrons in a shrug, “I can’t tell you much more than that. He was terse with his dismissal.”

Starscream rolled his optics dramatically, pushing to his pedes as he stepped around the table towards them.

“Well then, what can you tell me?” Starscream drawled, his irritation softening into something like burgeoning curiosity.

“We waited until the boy was on the neural network, and then we took flight. We transmitted the request for parlay on an open channel, and Prime responded within the breem that he would consider our request. When we landed on Diego Garcia at the agreed upon time, only Prime and his Chief Medical Officer were there to receive us. I did not even have the opportunity to state Megatron’s offer or conditions before Prime informed us that there would be no parlay.”

By the time that Thundercracker had finished speaking, Starscream’s expression had become openly contemplative. He stroked his chin with the tips of his clawed digits, before pinning Thundercracker with a long look.

“Did he give a reason?”

Thundercracker resisted the flare of indignation at the question—as though he would keep a reason for Prime’s refusal from his trine leader. Without a word, he compiled his memory files into a data packet and transmitted them to Starscream, albeit with less tact than usual.

“Oh, relax. Don’t get your thrusters in a knot.” Starscream snorted, obviously aware of his irritation. His trine leader was silent for the space of an astrosecond as he reviewed the files, and then his expression twisted in outrage.

“What does Prime mean that ‘he knows what even his senior officers do not’?” He demanded, his voice several octaves higher than normal.

Thundercracker’s faceplates turned down in a frown. Although he had not been able to make sense of Prime’s message, it was obvious that his words had been purposefully chosen.

“I don’t know what he meant,” Thundercracker admitted, “but I know that Prime was as angry as I’ve ever seen him.”

Starscream ex-vented a loud, derisive snort, “Yes, I am sure that he _strongly disapproved_ of Megatron’s treatment of his beloved little pet.”

His words were accompanied by exaggerated air quotes that caused Skywarp to chuckle loudly. Thundercracker’s frown sharpened, and he let his frustration and uncertainty bleed into his fields.

“I think that there is more going on here than we realize, Starscream.”

Starscream huffed in response, obviously miffed that Thundercracker was not amenable to his game. Eventually, he crossed his arms over his torso, tilting his helm as he considered his trinemate’s warning.

“Well, that useless collection of scrap metal and weapons that we call a leader had better not be keeping anything from me.”

“Yeah, right, Screamer. Megatron could fill his subspace with all the things that he hasn’t told you.” Skywarp cut in sarcastically.

“Don’t call me that.” Starscream snapped automatically, before he clarified, “Megatron can keep his pathetic plotting to himself, but he agreed to be forthright with me about the boy.”

Thundercracker rubbed his servo over his faceplates, feeling a processor ache setting in. He had advised Starscream that the warlord was not to be trusted when Megatron had first demanded that he transfer his Creator protocols. Starscream had been confident—overconfident, Thundercracker had thought to himself—that Megatron could be controlled. After all, Starscream had reasoned, Megatron relied on Starscream’s experience as a Creator to fully integrate the software into his core programming.

Now, it seemed, there was evidence to the contrary.

“What are you going to do?” Thundercracker asked at last.

Starscream tilted his helm, his expression openly thoughtful.

“I am going to do what I do best. Observe, analyze, and plan.”

“You’ll scheme, you mean.” Skywarp put in dryly, and the indignant noise that their Air Commander made in response caused Thundercracker’s lip plates to curve upwards in a smile. As the two started to bicker, Thundercracker forced himself to step away, separating himself from his trinemates’ fields.

“Megatron is expecting my report. I have no desire to keep him waiting any longer than strictly necessary.” He said, cycling air through his vents.

“Well, I’m glad it’s not me.” Skywarp said, turning to regard him with a sympathetic shrug, “He’s going to be apoplectic.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for all the energon on this miserable mudball.” Starscream agreed, “Let’s go.”

Thundercracker grimaced at his trine leader’s enthusiasm, but he followed him out of the athenaeum without complaint. Skywarp trailed behind them at a distance, obviously reluctant to have any part of the debriefing, but equally unwilling to leave Thundercracker to his fate. The realization warmed his spark casing, and he reached out, brushing against his wingmate’s signature. The resulting swell of affection from Skywarp’s fields served to soothe the frustration that was broiling in Thundercracker’s processors.

The athenaeum was only one deck down from the bridge, and they crossed the distance in less than a half a breem. Foot traffic was heavier nearer this part of the ship, and they ran into Barricade and Detour near the munitions storage. The two grounders turned as they passed, obviously interested in what had transpired during the parlay. Thundercracker was silent and reserved, but Starscream sauntered with the air of a mecha who knew something that they did not. The grounders wisely kept their questions to themselves.

All too soon, the large doors to the bridge slid open and they walked onto the command deck. Immediately, Thundercracker spotted Megatron standing in front of the large, clear viewing screen at the other end of the room. It was the same spot that Sam often occupied, whenever Megatron had brought him to the bridge. Somehow, Thundercracker doubted that it was a coincidence.

Megatron turned as they approached, his red optics sharp and assessing.

“Status report.”

Thundercracker steeled himself, but Starscream cut in before he could speak.

“Prime won’t parlay with you.” He blithely supplied.

Megatron angled his helm to regard the trine commander, his optics narrowing at Starscream’s flippant tone.

“Thundercracker, status report.” Megatron demanded, darkly.

In lieu of a reply, Thundercracker _pinged_ the data packet containing his memory files to the Decepticon leader. There was a brief pause as Megatron accessed the files, and then his faceplates contorted with fury. Thundercracker’s fuel pump skipped a beat at the black rage in the warframe’s expression, but then Megatron went very still. The Decepticon leader tilted his head, his optics becoming distant in the way that suggested he was reviewing the memory files with greater care.

Then, Megatron began to laugh. It was a loud, rolling rumble that echoed ominously around the bridge. The Decepticon leader was still laughing when he turned his back to them, moving closer to the large viewing screen with his servos clasped behind him. Thundercracker glanced at Starscream uncertainly, only to see that his trine leader had a similarly unsettled look on his faceplates.

“I will enjoy seeing your dark side, Orion.” Megatron murmured, as though to himself, “I will enjoy it very much.”

* * *

After Optimus left, Sam sat on his couch in the quiet of his apartment for a long time. He reflected on all that the Autobot leader had said, and considered what it meant for him as a ward of Cybertron and a Prime. As though he could sense Sam’s need for privacy, Bumblebee had brushed against his mind once, affectionate and understanding, and then he had given Sam his space. So, he sat there in silence, the throw blanket discarded on the couch beside him, as he poured over his thoughts.

Eventually, his bodily needs made themselves known and Sam grudgingly pushed to his feet. Stepping around the couch, he made his way into the bedroom and then the bathroom. He braced himself before snapping on the light, but his caution proved to be unnecessary. Someone had already cleaned up, removing the shattered glass and wiping away the blood. Sam glanced over the sink, only to see a large, empty space where the mirror had been. Whether they had not been able to replace it yet or had opted not to do so, Sam couldn’t say. He stared at the wall for a long moment, before sighing inwardly and stepping into the room.

After Sam had finished using the toilet and washing his hands, he glanced at the shower considerately. Although he had showered that morning—God, had it only been that morning?—he felt sweaty and gross. He opened the closet and saw that someone had washed his bath linens. Abruptly coming to a decision, Sam pulled out a face cloth and turned on the faucet. He shimmied out of his clothes and, waiting only long enough for the water to become tolerable, he stepped into the shower. He washed slowly, taking comfort in the familiar water pressure and how he knew exactly where to turn the gauge to achieve the temperature that he liked. When he finished, he stood under the stream of water with his eyes closed, letting it wash over his head and shoulders. He wasn’t sure for how long he stayed there, but by the time he climbed out of the shower, his fingers were pruney and the air was thick with steam.

Sam dried off quickly, pausing only to turn on the bathroom fan, before he made his way into the bedroom. When he opened his closet, he saw that his clothes had been replaced with smaller sizes. A glance down confirmed that his old clothing had been boxed up and stored in the back of the closet. He made a mental note to find out who to thank—it was probably Carter, he thought—before he pulled out a pair of boxers and sleeping pants.

Sam moved over to the bed, letting the towel drop to the floor as he pulled on his clothes. After he was dressed, he tossed the towel into the laundry basket and made his way back into the living room. As he sat down again, he pulled the throw blanket over his shoulders, lying his head against the arm of the couch. He only meant to rest his eyes, but he was exhausted from the day’s events and relaxed from the shower. He didn’t even realize that he had drifted off when a warm hand came to rest against the side of his face.

“Sam.” Bumblebee murmured softly, “Wake up.”

Sam squinted his eyes open, blinking up at the holoform who had crouched down in front of him.

“Bee? Whaddya want?”

Bumblebee’s expression warmed, his hand sliding up Sam’s face to card through his hair.

“Ratchet’s threatening to send you back to the medical bay if you don’t get something to eat.”

Sam groaned, pulling the blanket up to his nose, “I’m tired. I’ll eat when I get up.”

“If you go to sleep now, the mess will be closed when you get up.” Bumblebee replied patiently, “Come on, you can go back to sleep afterwards.”

Bumblebee tugged the blanket down, nudging at him gently but insistently to sit up. Sam grumbled under his breath, but otherwise acquiesced without protest. Bee brought him the tray that Optimus had left on the coffee table, nudging at him insistently as Sam frowned down at the cold lo mein.

“The Internet says that lo mein is perfectly edible as leftovers.” Bumblebee supplied helpfully.

Sam snorted softly, but he started in on his meal all the same. True to Bumblebee’s word, lo mein wasn’t terrible when eaten cold. When he had finished the better part of his dinner, Sam glanced up at the holoform.

“What time is it?”

“Just after seven.”

Sam nodded in response, twirling his fork to gather up the remains of the egg noodles, “Did I miss anything interesting?”

“Define interesting.” Bumblebee replied, amusement in his voice, “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe reported that sand has drifted over the southern access road, so that’ll be cleaned up tomorrow. The Indian Meteorological Department has advised the base that the remnants of tropical depression 11 will arrive by Wednesday, which will bring several days of thunderstorms and high winds. Other than that? Not much.”

Sam chuckled quietly. The ability of his life to seesaw from extremes of heart-stopping trauma to mind-numbing monotony never ceased to amaze him.

“Have you heard anything more about Knock Out?” He asked, after a moment.

Bumblebee tilted his head considerately, “Ultra Magnus has reported that he is being less belligerent. He didn’t refuse his rations today.”

Sam glanced up at the holoform with a frown knitting his brow, “That’s good, I guess.”

“Better than the alternative, certainly.” Bumblebee agreed, “Drift seems optimistic.”

When Sam finished the rest of his meal, he brought the tray over to the garbage by the door. He scraped the remains of the lo mein into the trash, along with the plastic cutlery and used napkins, before setting the tray on the side table. He eyed the boxed leftovers from lunch and, after a moment’s consideration, added them to the trash. There was no way that he was going to eat them before breakfast, and he didn’t have a fridge.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he glanced in Bumblebee’s direction.

“Hey, how much money do I have in my account?”

Bumblebee tilted his head, chirping at him considerately before he replied, “Approximately $200,000 USD.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe, slowly turning to stare at the holoform in stunned disbelief.

“Wh— _what_?” He spluttered, barely able to get the word out.

Bumblebee blinked at him, as though taken aback by his shock, “The average annual salary of a United Nations Ambassador is $180,000 USD. Prime adjusted for your education and experience, and then deducted your living expenses.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief, willing the holoform to break into a teasing smile or follow up with a joke. When neither of those things happened, Sam felt his knees go wobbly.

“Holy shit.” Sam whispered weakly, “I think I need to sit down.”

Bumblebee’s expression sharpened with concern, but Sam waved him off as the holoform crossed the room towards him. As soon as Sam’s knees felt less like jelly, he pinned him with an incredulous stare.

“Jesus Christ, Bumblebee. I wanted to know whether I could afford a bar fridge—not a fucking house.” Sam managed, aghast, “No, it has to go. Right now. Tonight.”

The concern on Bumblebee’s face deepened, “Sam, you are our Ambassador—“

“I met with two people two years ago!” Sam snapped, distantly aware of the shrill edge to his voice, “I won’t accept it.”

Bumblebee’s eyes flicked over his face, evidentially taking in the way that Sam was breathing harshly and his cheeks were flushed, before he brought his hands up to squeeze Sam’s shoulders.

“Alright, Sam.” Bumblebee placated, soothingly, “I’ll take care of it.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the holoform, searching for some sign of duplicity in his expression. In response, Bumblebee brushed against his mind, and Sam felt some of the tension release from his shoulders at the note of _promise_ that suffused the touch. As the rigidity in Sam’s posture slowly relaxed, Bumblebee’s thumbs continued to rub soothing circles into the skin of his neck.

“Thanks.” Sam murmured, relaxing into the caress.

Bumblebee hummed understandingly, stepping forward until they stood almost chest-to-chest with one another. The feeling of closeness, of being corralled against him, was surprisingly comforting. Sam let himself pitch forward until his forehead pressed into the junction of Bumblebee’s neck and shoulder. He stayed there like that, breathing softly, as his bonded gentled him. Sam didn’t even have the energy to feel self-conscious—it simply felt too nice.

After a long moment, Bumblebee pressed a chaste kiss against Sam’s temple.

“Your parents are getting ready to bridge in.”

Bumblebee’s words punctured the warm fog of dopamine in which he had been floating, and Sam came back to himself with a start.

“What? _Now?_ ” He demanded, suddenly wide awake.

“It’s just before seven in the morning in Arizona. Your mother returned Carter’s phone call an hour ago. She was… insistent that we bridge them over immediately.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief for the space of a heartbeat before he groaned.

“Carter is going to murder me in my sleep.” He grumbled as he turned around and sprinted into his bedroom. Bumblebee followed behind him, chuckling quietly, as Sam yanked open his closet. He pulled out a pair of jeans and a long sleeved Henley, quickly getting dressed before toeing on his sneakers. He turned to look at Bumblebee expectantly as he raked his fingers through his hair.

“Do I look okay?”

Bumblebee’s face softened in warm affection.

“You look good, Sam.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth quirked in wry amusement at the thrum of _sincerity_ that he could feel from the scout, “Thanks, Bee. Can we go now? I want to be there when they arrive.”

Bumblebee nodded agreeably, gesturing towards the front door. Sam strode into the living room, pausing only to grab his cell phone and badge, before making his way out of the apartment. As he stepped into the corridor, Sam pulled the lanyard over his head—and was blindsided by the way the simple, familiar motion made him feel at home again. He pulled the door shut behind them, taking a moment to get his emotions under control, before falling into step beside Bumblebee. He could tell by the understanding look on the holoform’s face that he hadn’t missed Sam’s moment of happy reminiscence.

They walked briskly as they made their way through North Quad. Although Sam returned the nods and friendly greetings of the people that they passed, his attention was focused on getting to the bridge entrance as quickly as possible. When they finally stepped through the large red doors, Sam was relieved but not surprised to see Bumblebee waiting in his alt mode. He flashed an appreciative smile as he stepped towards the Camaro, whose driver’s side door opened as he approached.

“Hello gorgeous.” Sam murmured, a grin warming his face as he smoothed his hand over the yellow bonnet, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Bumblebee’s engine revved loudly in response, a sound that reverberated up and down the bridge, drawing curious glances from passersby. Sam’s grin broadened in undisguised amusement and he climbed into the cabin without another word. As the door shut behind him, the lights on the dash and the multi-media interfaced brightened to life. A moment later, Bumblebee shifted into gear and accelerated towards East Quad.

As they drove, Sam thought about the reunion that was quickly approaching, and something suddenly occurred to him.

“Did Optimus tell them anything? About me?” Sam asked, directing his question towards the dash out of habit, “When he told them about what happened?”

“Optimus told them about the Allspark energy that is radiating from your cells, although he did not inform them about the consequences it has had on your physiology. Neither has he told them about your on-lining or about our bond.”

Sam tilted his head, suddenly feeling uncertain.

“What am I allowed to tell them?”

At once, Bumblebee’s presence brushed comfortingly across his mind, their bond-space swelling with his quiet reassurance.

“They are your secrets, Sam. You may tell them as much or as little as you like.”

Sam chewed the inside of his lip, his feeling of uncertainty deepening at the scout’s words.

“But it’s not just my secret, Bee. It involves the both of us.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with a complicated mixture of emotions. There was affection and reassurance, which Sam could make out readily enough, but he had to focus to understand the confusing thrum of _curiosity_ - _anticipation-resolve_ that he felt.

“I appreciate your consideration, Sam, but they are your parents. You should tell them whatever you want them to know.”

Sam sighed gustily, raking his hands through his hair again.

“You say that now, but I have no idea how they’ll react.”

“Having come to know Ron and Judy over the last four years, I think that they will be shocked at first—angry and afraid, perhaps—but they love you. They will come to accept whatever you tell them in time.”

The scout’s words were delivered in a confident manner, as though he was certain that everything would work out all right in the end. It made Sam’s chest ache with appreciation and affection.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” Sam murmured, reaching out to stroke his thumb across the Autobot emblem set in the steering wheel, “Thanks Bee.”

Bumblebee chirped at him good-naturedly, slowing to a stop as the large blue doors of East Quad opened in front of them. As soon as the way was clear, Bumblebee accelerated forward again, making his way deeper into the research annex.

“Why is the ground bridge in East Quad? Why not West Quad?”

Bumblebee trilled at him softly, an undulating sound that was vaguely reminiscent of a shrug.

“Wheeljack and Perceptor manage the ground bridge controls whenever there is an activation. Otherwise, I can see no particular reason for one location over the other.”

Wheeljack’s name caused something indefinable to wedge itself in Sam’s chest, and he sat back against the driver’s seat with a shaky exhale.

“Wheeljack… is he okay? Did he make it through the battle alright?”

There was a protracted pause, one that stretched for a fraction of a second too long to be casual, before Bumblebee replied.

“Wheeljack is fine. He retreated to Cust Point as you commanded, where he stayed until Prime gave the all-clear.”

The too-casual levity in his tone caused Sam to glance at the dashboard in surprise.

“What’s that all about?”

Sam felt a flash of irritation—frustration?—across their bond before Bumblebee replied, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. He couldn’t remember the scout ever brushing him off before. He was tempted to argue, to demand an answer to his question, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded faintly at the dashboard and fell silent, staring out the windshield as Bumblebee made his way through the quad.

Eventually, Bumblebee turned into a large, airy hangar located a short distance from Wheeljack’s lab. He recognized the elegant half-arch of the ground bridge positioned in the center of the room. The ground bridge controls were located a short distance away, behind a transparent pane of blast-proof paneling. Perceptor stood at the complicated-looking workstation, his servos flying over the keyboard in front of him. As Bumblebee rolled to a stop in front of the ground bridge, Perceptor glanced in their direction, giving them a friendly wave. On the opposite side of the arch were Optimus, Ironhide, and Smokescreen, standing in their bi-pedal modes. Sam could see Dave Carter standing between them and the ground bridge, visible through the stream of soldiers and support staff moving around the archway.

Sam pushed open Bumblebee’s door and climbed out of the cabin. As soon as he was clear, Bumblebee rolled back several paces and transformed into his bi-pedal mode. Sam glanced up at him with an anxious smile before walking towards the group assembled in front of the ground bridge.

“Sam, hello!” Dave greeted, looking composed and well-groomed despite the late hour, “Welcome to the show.”

Sam smiled, genuinely pleased to see him.

“Hey Dave. I’m sorry if my mother has been driving you crazy.”

Dave grinned in good-natured humor, “It’s nothing that I can’t handle.”

“Give it a few days—you’ll be begging for mercy.” Sam replied, wryly.

Carter’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he threw back his head and laughed. The sound seemed to draw Optimus’ attention, for he stepped towards them a moment later.

“Sam.” Optimus rumbled, lowering to one knee in front of him, “I am glad to see you again so soon.”

“Hey Optimus. Glad to see you too.” Sam murmured, reaching out a hand to pat his large blue greave affectionately.

Behind Optimus, Smokescreen stiffened from helm to pede, his optics widening minutely. The red, blue, and silver mechanoid turned to look at Ironhide, as though in expectation. The weapon’s specialist glanced back at him, his expression uninterested and only just polite, before lifting his pauldrons in a shrug. Sam frowned faintly at the strange interaction, but before he could ask for an explanation, Perceptor called out across the hangar.

“Lennox has sent a ready-check, requesting a return bridge. With your permission, Prime.”

Optimus glanced towards the scientist, before straightening to his full height.

“Permission granted.” He rumbled.

Sam glanced up at Optimus, shifting from foot to foot as sudden nervousness twisted in his gut.

“Is there anything you don’t want them to know?” He asked, softly.

Optimus glanced down at him, as though in surprise.

“Use your best judgement, Sam. I trust your discretion.” Optimus replied.

Sam nodded faintly, turning to look at the ground bridge. Perceptor’s servos flew over the keyboard in front of him, as he chirped quietly to himself. Minutes later, the familiar blue-green whirlpool of light and color exploded into life in the archway. Sam shivered at the sight of it, strange and beautiful and _alien_. He barely had a moment to brace himself, his heart thundering uncomfortably in his chest, before Lennox was stepping through the ground bridge. Before Sam could wave hello, Lennox turned to face the archway, walking backwards several paces. In the next moment, his mother and father stepped through the ground bridge together. Sam barely had time to reflect on the fact that they looked exactly the same as he remembered, before they turned towards him in perfect unison.

“Oh, sweetheart. Look at you.” His mother whispered, striding towards him with her arms outstretched. Sam stepped forward automatically, letting her pull him into a hug without complaint. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest, could feel the faint tremble in her body as she held him. 

“Hey Ma.” He murmured into her hair, “I missed you.”

She did not reply, except to squeeze him tighter. His father stopped beside them, lifting a beefy hand to clasp the back of Sam’s head. Sam turned to look at him, smiling faintly. His father’s face was pale and flushed, his eyes dark with emotion, but he did not cry. None of them cried. His parents held him in reverent, thankful silence, and Sam allowed himself to feel safe in their embrace.

“Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, welcome back to Diego Garcia.” Optimus intoned respectfully, after an interminable time. As though his words were a release, his mother pulled back an arm’s length, raising her hands cup the sides of Sam’s face.

“Thank-you, Optimus.” She replied, without looking up at him, “We appreciate your flexibility.”

Optimus inclined his head minutely, “You already know my personal assistant, Dave Carter. He will be responsible for settling you in and answering any questions that you may have during your stay.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, I am glad to see you under these better circumstances.” Dave greeted, stepping up to them, “May I show you to your accommodations?”

Sam glanced at the agent in surprise.

“Where are they staying?” He asked. His unspoken question, ‘ _how long are they staying’_ , was implied by his tone.

“There has been an apartment set aside for their use in the Officer’s Section of North Quad.” Dave answered promptly, “They will have access to the base for the duration of their week-long visit.”

Before Sam could reply, a soldier stepped forward and deposited two large duffle bags on the floor beside his father. Behind the soldier, Will was watching them with an intensity of expression that Sam couldn’t identify. He caught the major’s gaze and smiled at him in greeting. Will nodded back, stiff and formal, before turning to stride in Perceptor’s direction. Sam frowned faintly, glancing over his shoulder at Bumblebee. The yellow scout whistled at him softly, and Sam understood at once that it was not a topic of conversation for the present moment.

The rest of the evening passed by in a dizzying blur. Sam introduced his parents to Bumblebee’s holoform (which was met with an exclamation of delighted surprise from his mother and a grunt of acknowledgement from his father), and then they made their way back to North Quad. As they walked together towards the Officer’s Section, Sam carrying one duffle bag and his father the other, Carter chatted amiably about the policies and procedures that his parents would be expected to follow—most notably, that they were required to be escorted any time they wished to leave North Quad. Carter also provided his parents with temporary visitor’s badges and two identical looking cell phones.

“They’re for use on the base, since your mobiles were confiscated prior to bridging over.” Carter explained, “You will find both my number and Sam’s number among the other pre-programmed contacts. Please keep your phones and your badges on your person at all times.”

His parents’ accommodations were a mirror image to his own apartment, right down to the mass produced floral artwork on the walls. The biggest surprise was their proximity; they were five doors down from Sam’s residence on the opposite side of the corridor. As his mother moved around the room, unpacking their duffle bags and commenting on the accommodations (“Ron, they have a Keurig. Isn’t that thoughtful?”), his father sat in silence, his hand gripping the arm of the couch until his knuckles were white.

After his mother was satisfied that everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion, Carter asked whether they would like to head to the mess hall. As Sam learned, much to his chagrin, his mother had insisted that they be allowed to bridge over immediately, even before they had eaten breakfast. Carter’s question evoked the first full sentence from his father since he had arrived, a gruff agreement that something to eat would be in order.

They walked to the mess hall together with Carter leading the way. His parents trailed closely behind the agent—likely so that his mother wouldn’t have to raise her voice to continue badgering him with questions—and Sam and Bumblebee followed behind. They arrived at the mess ten minutes before closing, and his parents followed Carter as he led them over to the galley. The large room was almost entirely empty, except for the cashier and the cleaning crew. His parents took their meals to go—an assortment of pastries, a fruit tray, and coffee—and then they were making their way back through North Quad towards the residences.

When they arrived at his parent’s apartment, Carter took his leave with a reminder to contact him if they needed anything. Apparently revived a bit by the coffee, his father thanked the agent sincerely before pushing open the door to the residence. Sam and Bumblebee trailed after his parents, letting the door shut behind them. When Bumblebee smiled politely and suggested that he leave in order to give them some time alone together, his mother clucked her tongue at him.

“Nonsense, Bumblebee. With you here, it’s just like it was in California, before—well… you know.”

Sam managed to hide his wince at her words. Although it was possible that his mother didn’t want to turn Bumblebee out, Sam suspected that she was anxious about the confrontation that would inevitably occur when they were finally alone together.

Frankly, Sam didn’t blame her.

So it was that Sam found himself on the couch, sitting next to his mother as she held his hand loosely in her lap, as they watched late night television. His father sat in the armchair next to the reading nook, just as he had at their suburban home in Tranquility. It was comfortable and domestic and, if Sam didn’t think about it too closely, just as it always had been between them.

It was just after three o’clock in the morning, with his eyes burning from exhaustion, that Sam felt the Creator bond shift impatiently. A moment later, Ratchet’s voice cut through his mind.

_//You’re minutes away from passing out. Go to bed.//_

Sam struggled to keep his expression neutral, but he could not suppress the flare of annoyance that he felt at the medic’s bossy, assuming tone.

 _//I haven’t seen my parents in two years.//_ Sam replied, his mental voice only just polite, _//I’ll go to bed when they do.//_

 _//Your parents are operating on Mountain Standard Time, you are not.//_ The medic replied immediately, _//Go to sleep.//_

Sam glanced at Bumblebee, his face twisting with genuine irritation. Apparently aware of his inner argument, the holoform smiled at him sympathetically. Suddenly mindful of the tender way his mother was absentmindedly stroking her thumb over his palm, Sam settled back against the couch and gave her hand a squeeze. As soon as he did so, Ratchet's presence brightened forebodingly. 

_//Don’t make me tell your mother.//_ Ratchet threatened.

Sam stiffened, flushing all the way to his hairline. His mother glanced over, concern knitting the space between her eyebrows.

 _//You wouldn’t dare.//_ Sam snapped, with more confidence than he felt.

_//Oh?//_

_//I swear to God, Ratchet—//_

Sam’s only warning was a brightening of _intention_ through their bond-space, and a moment later Ratchet’s holoform materialized between the coffee table and the television. His parents reacted predictably—his mother jumped in her seat, giving a startled cry of surprise, and his father spilled the remains of his second coffee all over the carpet.

“Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” Ratchet greeted, matter-of-factly, “My name is Ratchet, and I am your son’s physician.”

“Ratchet!” Sam snapped, pushing to his feet, but the medic pinned him with a glower that could have flash-frozen ionized plasma.

“Sit down before you fall down.” Ratchet ordered brusquely, before turning his attention towards Sam’s parents, “I am sorry to interrupt. I have come to take your son back to his apartment.”

“What, why?” His mother asked, her expression equal parts confused and concerned, “Is something wrong?”

“It is just after three o'clock in the morning, and Sam requires his rest.” Ratchet replied. The note of finality in his tone ignited Sam’s temper, and he glared hot human murder at the holoform.

“Ratchet, don’t you fucking—“

 _“Samuel James Witwicky!_ ” His mother snapped, rounding on him in maternal fury, “You watch your mouth!”

Sam found that a most remarkable thing happened then—he was instantaneously teleported back in time to when he was sixteen years old and living under his parents’ roof. He blushed all the way to the roots of his hair, as he stammered an apology to his mother.

“Judy, don’t gripe at him. He’s twenty-one years old.” His father cut in dryly, bending over to pick up his coffee cup.

“I don’t care if he lives to be a hundred and twenty-one, as long as I have breath in my body, I am still his mother!”

His father glanced at him in sympathy, shrugging in a universal gesture of ‘ _sorry, I tried’_ before making his way into the bathroom to find a towel. His mother pushed herself to her feet, glancing towards Ratchet.

“Thank-you Doctor, I’ll take care of it.”

Ratchet inclined his head in acknowledgement before his holoform disappeared a moment later. Sam didn’t even have the opportunity to swear at the medic over their bond before his mother snapped her fingers impatiently.

“Let’s go. Right now.” She commanded, serious and stern. Sam surprised himself by meekly following behind her without a word of complaint. Within five minutes, he was sitting on the edge of his bed as his mother rooted through his closet, pulling out a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt. She tossed the clothing down on the mattress beside him before crossing the room to stand in front of him. She bent down, kissing him gently on the crown of his head, as she reached up to pat his cheek affectionately.

“Go to bed, Sammy. I will see you in the morning.”

Sam grasped her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Okay, Ma.” He murmured, “See you tomorrow.”

She switched off the overhead light, turning to smile at him from his bedroom doorway, before she walked away. A moment later, Sam heard the front door open and shut, and then he was alone. He heaved a sigh, shaking his head at the abrupt turn of events, as he pulled back the blankets and laid down. Sam barely had the chance to reach towards the winter-white glow in his mind before Bumblebee’s holoform appeared at his bedside. His bonded smiled at him in open affection, leaning down to brush a gentle kiss across his lips.

“Are you sure it’s Carter who’s going to be begging for mercy after a few days?” He teased.

Sam huffed a soft laugh, lifting the blankets to allow the holoform to lay down beside him. Bumblebee complied, settling down so that they were lying chest to chest, before he draped his arm over Sam’s hip. As Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, Bumblebee traced a familiar pattern into the skin of Sam’s back, over and over again.

Bumblebee’s touch, firm and gentle, was the last thing that Sam felt before he drifted to sleep only moments later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note** : The phrase 'hot human murder' was lovingly lifted from blissfire's hilarious ficlet [Youth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/356791). It made me laugh out loud, I definitely recommend it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm a broken record, but still: thank-you all so much for your continued enthusiasm and support. I read every single comment about a dozen times, and visit every single profile who leaves kudos/bookmarks. I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you.
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : Explicit sexual content. Honestly, this chapter is 80% pure filth and 20% fluff.

The first time that Sam woke up, he rolled over with a grunt and buried his face into the pillows. He had the vague memory of urgency and purpose, hazy relicts from his fading dreams, but he drifted back to sleep before he could reflect on it. The next time that Sam awoke, he felt warm and heavy in the way that only a deep, uninterrupted sleep could achieve. He shifted against the mattress, stretching his legs until they trembled, before tucking a knee up to his chest. The motion made him come to an abrupt and surprising realization—he had an erection, for the first time upon waking in almost two years. He slanted his eyes open, equal parts interested and relieved, when he caught sight of Bumblebee’s holoform. Bee was lying on his side, between Sam and the bedside table, with the blankets draped loosely around his hips. As Sam cracked a sleepy smile at him, he noticed for the first time that the holoform was still clothed. 

“Good morning.” Bumblebee murmured, returning his smile, “Well, technically, good afternoon.”

“What time is it?” Sam asked curiously, his voice rough from disuse.

“Almost one.”

Sam rolled onto his back, yawning so hard that his jaw cracked, before he scrubbed his good hand over his face. He turned to look at the holoform, reaching out to tug at the neckline of his shirt.

“It’s considered bad manners to wear your street clothes to bed.” He teased.

The holoform tilted his head, something like confusion flickering across his face.

“These aren’t clothes, Sam.”

Sam laughed aloud, rolling onto his side again so that they lay facing each other.

“I know, but I’ve been told that I’m prone to good-natured teasing.” Sam replied meaningfully, as he propped himself up onto his elbow. It only took a second for comprehension to spread across the holoform’s face.

“First Aid?” He guessed.

“First Aid.” Sam agreed, grinning, “What other stories have you been spreading about me?”

Bumblebee’s expression did something complicated as his good humor visibly faded away. The sight of it made Sam’s stomach clench with anxiety and he shifted forward until his lips were inches from Bumblebee’s mouth.

“What did I tell you about brooding in bed?”

The corners of Bumblebee’s mouth quirked up, but he did not move to close the distance between them.

“That it is both attractive and desirable?”

“Swing and a miss.” Sam laughed, reaching out a hand to nudge against the holoform’s shoulder. Bumblebee obliged him, rolling onto his back without complaint. As soon as he was settled against the mattress, Sam threw a leg over the holoform’s body before pushing up to straddle him across his thighs. The look of curious expectation on Bumblebee’s face flashed into wide-eyed surprise, and Sam was enormously gratified to have caught his bonded off-guard. He reached out, brushing his fingertips over the hallow of the holoform’s throat, before he trailed them down his chest. 

“You told me once that you enjoy it when I touch you.” Sam murmured, “How much, exactly?”

Bumblebee’s expression sharpened, becoming voracious.

“It is difficult to explain.” He replied slowly, raising his hands to settle against Sam’s hips. His eyes flicked to Sam’s boxers, the intensity of his expression becoming deeper still and more pronounced.

“Cliffnotes version, please.” Sam asked mildly. When Bumblebee’s gaze didn’t stray from the hard line of Sam’s erection, Sam pinched the holoform’s nipple through his shirt, “Eyes up here.”

Bumblebee jerked in surprise, his gaze flying up to Sam’s face.

“I enjoy touching you.” Sam explained with exaggerated patience, “But if it doesn’t do anything for you, then we can figure out other ways—“

“I like it.” Bumblebee interrupted, his hands tightening around Sam’s hips, “It’s different than what you feel, but it is enjoyable.”

Sam hummed approvingly, before he pulled at the fabric of Bumblebee’s shirt with his forefinger and thumb.

“So, how do your mimicry circuits work, exactly?” He asked, his voice becoming silky, “Because I would very much like for you to be naked when you get me off.”

Bumblebee’s expression became poleaxed, as though he could not believe the words that were coming out of Sam’s mouth. Sam resisted the urge to grin with a modicum of effort—in all of the time that they had been together, he had never been the one to initiate sexual intimacy. The thrill of power that it gave him, combined with having rendered his bonded speechless, was a heady thing indeed. Bumblebee’s grip on his hips became bruising, and he swallowed before he spoke.

“It would take a minute to adjust—“

“I have all afternoon.” Sam interrupted him with a cheeky smile, “After all, I’m convalescing.”

Sam punctuated his words with a roll of his hips, and Bumblebee audibly groaned. The sound stoked Sam’s arousal unlike anything he had experienced before in his life. Bumblebee’s expression became focused, almost desperately determined. After a minute, the holoform wavered beneath him, like a mirage in the desert, and then Bumblebee was naked.

Sam made a soft exclamation of surprise. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. The holoform was tanned and lean, with small dusky nipples that pebbled under the pads of Sam’s fingers. Although he was trim in a way that would have been considered athletic, were he human, he was not overly muscular. As his eyes trailed down his chest to the curve of his hips, Sam felt his cheeks heat as he realized that the holoform was anatomically correct. In fact, Sam realized, the holoform was virtually indistinguishable from an adult human male in every respect, except for the airbrushed quality of his skin.

After a long moment of staring down at his body, Sam felt Bumblebee’s mental presence shift uncertainly across their bond. He glanced up to the holoform’s face to see something like self-consciousness there, and Sam smiled at him teasingly.

“You’ve been holding out on me, buddy.”

At Sam’s words, the holoform huffed a loud laugh and his grip on Sam’s hips gentled. Sam smoothed his hands down Bumblebee’s chest, marveling at the way the skin was firm yet soft beneath his palms. With his heart suddenly pounding in nervous anticipation, Sam leaned down to kiss the skin over the holoform’s sternum. He glanced up at Bumblebee, gratified to see that the holoform was staring down at him in rapt attention, before he shifted over to lave at a nipple with his tongue.

Bumblebee went rigid below him, his hands tightening around Sam’s hips again. Encouraged by his reaction, Sam focused his attention on the pebbled nub, sucking on it gently. He stayed there for a long while, licking and nibbling at the hardened flesh, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Sam.” Bumblebee rasped.

“Mm?” Sam replied.

“This is… not what I expected.” Bee said, his voice strained, “The sensory data—“

Bumblebee’s voice broke as Sam bit lightly at his nipple. He was aware of Bumblebee’s building desire, heated and frantic and _confused_ , and he smiled into the skin of Bumblebee’s chest.

“Sorry, you were saying?” Sam asked mildly.

“The mimicry circuits.” Bee managed, his voice wrecked, “I don’t understand why, but they are translating physical touch differently than they should.”

Sam frowned, pulling back faintly.

“Are you okay?”

Bumblebee squeezed his eyes shut, and Sam was astonished to see a blush spread across his face.

“I’m alright, it is just very… intense.”

“Intense good or intense bad?” Sam asked.

Bumblebee groaned softly as Sam’s nails caught his skin as they dragged down his sides.

“Intense intense.” Bumblebee replied tightly, before he reached up to catch Sam’s wrist with his hand, “I won’t be able to last much longer if you keep doing that.”

Sam stared down at him incredulously.

“Are you serious?”

Bumblebee did not reply, but his strained expression served to answer Sam’s question. The realization that Bumblebee was unable to control his charge, that he was so worked up from Sam’s touch that he thought he might overload, went straight to Sam’s cock. With a razor-sharp smirk curling the corner of his mouth, Sam reached down to palm Bumblebee’s erection. The holoform’s eyes flew open in shocked surprise, his body shuddering at the sensation.

“If you want me to stop, you’re going to have to make me.” Sam whispered breathlessly. He felt hot all over, fully aware that this was outside of the boundaries of their usual sexual intimacy.

Bumblebee’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then they narrowed with predatory intent. The holoform shifted, one hand flying to the small of Sam’s back and the other to the nape of his neck, and then Sam abruptly found himself flat against the mattress as the holoform reversed their positions. Bumblebee adjusted himself, moving to sit on Sam’s legs while pinning his wrists above his head with one hand.

“Holy shit,“ Sam gasped, his cock painfully hard from the casual display of control, “that was—“

Sam was unable to finish his sentence before Bumblebee crushed their mouths together. The holoform kissed him deeply, his tongue working its way into Sam’s mouth as he pushed Sam’s shirt up to his armpits. A moment later, Bumblebee rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger with just enough pressure to hurt.

“Was that a request?” Bumblebee asked, pulling back slightly to pin him with a stare, “Because I didn’t hear you say please.”

Bumblebee’s tone was equal parts indecent and serious, and Sam groaned softly in response. He tried to lift his hips entreatingly, but Bumblebee merely shifted his weight forward in order to keep him pinned against the mattress. 

“So impatient.” Bumblebee admonished, “What’s the rush? As you said, we have all afternoon.”

Sam stared up at him, thunderstruck by the almost-painful wave of arousal that washed over him at the steel in his bonded’s tone. His tongue darted out, moistening his lower lip in anticipation. The minute gesture caught Bumblebee’s attention, and the holoform smiled down at him, his expression becoming almost tender. The warmth was gone a moment later, replaced with a sort-of smug confidence that Sam was sure did not bode well for him. Then, Bumblebee was leaning down, mouthing along his jaw with lips and tongue to the sensitive patch of skin below his ear. All the while, Bee kept his wrists pinned to the mattress with one hand, while the other flicked and rubbed at Sam’s nipples.

Sam couldn’t suppress his choked whimper as Bumblebee lightly nipped at his earlobe. He shifted his hips, desperate to get some friction against his aching erection, but Bumblebee squeezed his wrists warningly.

“Bumblebee, if you don’t touch me in the next five seconds—“ He threatened, but the warning was wholly undercut by the breathy quality of his voice. Above him, the holoform chuckled quietly as he mouthed down the column of Sam’s throat.

“One.” Bee murmured, moving his hand in order to lightly twist Sam’s other nipple. The bloom of pleasure-pain caused Sam to hiss softly in surprise. 

“Two.”

Bumblebee had reached the hallow of his throat, and he lapped at the perspiration that had gathered there. The sensation made Sam squirm and he tugged at his wrists, determined to get a hand around his cock _right fucking now_. Bumblebee’s grip was like iron, firm and unrelenting.

“Bumblebee, come on—“ Sam urged, trying to shift his hips. He could feel his cock, heavy and aching, straining against his boxers.

“Three.”

Sam groaned, tossing his head back against the pillow, as Bumblebee’s mouth laved down his chest. He went first to one nipple, sucking it into his mouth and rolling it lightly between his teeth, before delivering the same attention to its twin. Sam’s dick was painfully hard now and leaking precum inside his boxers, which were beginning to cling to him. It was not a particularly enjoyable sensation.

“Bee.” He choked out, his voice desperate and needy, “Please.”

“Three.” Bumblebee murmured, kissing along the trail of fine, brown hair that gathered at Sam’s navel.

“You already said three!” Sam exploded, his voice an octave higher than normal. The holoform looked up at him, an amused smile curling the corners of his lips.

“My apologies, Sam.” He replied, in a voice that was anything but contrite, “I seem to be distracted.”

Sam stared at him incredulously for the space of a second, before he bucked up with his hips, trying to dislodge the holoform’s weight from his thighs. Bumblebee was like a block of granite, solid and immovable, and he watched Sam struggle with an air of tolerant amusement. Eventually, Sam gave up, falling back against the mattress as he fought to catch his breath. As soon as he stopped fighting, Bumblebee leaned down to suck a bruise into the V of Sam’s hip. The shock of pleasure was so unexpected that Sam whimpered in response.

“If I let go of you to take these off, are you going to behave yourself?” Bumblebee asked mildly, his eyes boring into Sam’s face as he tugged meaningfully at the waistline of his boxers.

Sam had to swallow before he could reply. “Yeah.”

Bumblebee smiled at him, his stern demeanor softening minutely. Giving Sam’s wrists a little squeeze—whether in warning or in approval, Sam couldn’t guess—he let go, hooking the fingers of both hands into the waist of Sam’s boxers. Bumblebee shifted onto one knee, tugging the fabric down and off, before resuming his position. When he glanced up at Sam’s hands, which were still crossed above his head, his expression sharpened knowingly. He leaned forward, nuzzling into the skin beneath Sam’s ear.

“Four.” He murmured, his voice barely more than a brush of warm air against Sam’s neck.

Sam swallowed again, forcing himself to lie perfectly still with every remaining shred of his willpower. Bumblebee waited a moment, before brushing against his mind with open approval. The touch was heavy with _urgency-anticipation-affection_ , and Sam smiled in response. He lifted his head, kissing the holoform deeply in a way that he hoped conveyed the depths of his desperation.

Judging by his soft chuckle, Bumblebee knew exactly how desperate he was.

Bumblebee pushed back, smoothing his hands down Sam’s flanks, before settling his palms over Sam’s upper thighs. His thumbs stroked the sensitive flesh of his groin, agonizingly close to the burning center of Sam’s need.

“Bee.” Sam begged, his voice a breathy whine, “ _Please_.”

Bumblebee shifted, pushing Sam’s legs apart so that he could kneel between them. A moment later, the holoform began to mouth at the junction of his inner thigh, teasing the sensitive flesh with his lips and tongue until Sam was certain he was going to come untouched. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Bumblebee backed off completely, his hands coming up to kneed Sam’s thigh muscles until he calmed down. He was sweating heavily now, his hair clinging to his forehead as perspiration beaded at his temples.

Bumblebee watched him carefully, as though in consideration, before he said, “I have limited knowledge of what you have and have not experimented with in the past. If I do something to make you uncomfortable, I will know and I will stop.”

Sam stared down at him uncomprehendingly. Stopping was the exact opposite of what he wanted at that moment, “What?”

Bumblebee smiled at him warmly, as though amused by his reaction, before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He leaned down, kissing from the junction of Sam’s inner thigh to his pubic area. Sam’s breath caught in his throat, as Bumblebee reached out a hand to grasp Sam’s testicles. He rolled them gently in his palm, before shifting forward and mouthing at Sam’s perineum. Sam went rigid in shock and in pleasure, his hands flying of their own accord to rest against Bumblebee’s head.

The holoform stilled, waiting until Sam’s breathing settled into something approaching normal, before looking up at him meaningfully. It took a second for his implication to make its way through Sam’s lust-addled mind, but then he raised his hands back up above his head. Bumblebee smiled at him affectionately, rubbing a thumb in firm circles against his perineum.

 _//Five.//_ He murmured across their bond, and then he swallowed Sam from crown to root in one fell motion. Sam moaned loudly as his hips jerked upwards, blindsided by the rush of _heat-wetness-pressure_ that enveloped his aching cock. Bumblebee bobbed once, twice, sucking him down as his thumb moved to press against Sam’s tight hole, and it was all over. Sam arched his back and screamed, his hands flying to Bumblebee’s head again as white-hot pleasure exploded through him. Bumblebee swallowed around him, again and again, as Sam shuddered through the most intense orgasm of his life.

When at last Sam was capable of rational thought, he released his grip on Bumblebee’s head and fell back against the mattress with a weak groan. He was absolutely wrecked—soaked in sweat and trembling from the force of his release. After a moment, Bumblebee climbed up to lie down beside him, his hand coming to rest against Sam’s chest. As Sam struggled to get his thundering heart under control, Bumblebee kissed him gently, chastely.

“I love you.” His murmured, pressing his forehead against Sam’s temple.

Sam grunted in response, a sound that might have been charitably interpreted as “You too.”

Bumblebee chuckled, tracing a familiar pattern against Sam’s sternum. They lay there like that in silence, until Sam’s breathing eventually evened out.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Bumblebee.” He managed, at last, “Where did you learn how to do _that_?”

“Samuel James Witwicky, you watch your mouth.” The holoform replied, a shit-eating grin on his face. Sam made an uncharitable noise, reaching out to flick a finger against the holoform’s neck.

“That was… yeah, that was… intense.” Sam said slowly, almost wondrously, “Wherever that came from, you can definitely add it to the list of turn-ons. All of it, from start to finish.”

Bumblebee laughed good-naturedly, “I already told you, Sam. I have access to terabytes of data about human sexuality.”

Sam glanced over at the holoform as his meaning became clear, “Are you talking about porn?”

“Only partially, but yes.”

Sam considered his words, when something occurred to him. He glanced down at the holoform, feeling suddenly uncertain.

“Do you enjoy it? Or are you only doing it because I enjoy it?”

To Sam’s surprise, Bumblebee threw back his head and laughed. If it were not for the genuine affection that he could feel across their bond, Sam would have been insulted.

“Of course I enjoy it.” Bee replied after a moment, his tone reassuring, “Yes, I enjoy that you enjoy it—I can experience the same sensations that you experience, through the bond—but I have my own preferences that align with yours.”

Sam stared at the holoform in confusion, before understanding dawned on him. He couldn’t help the blush the spread across his cheeks as he asked, tentatively, “So you enjoyed that, then? Being in control?”

Bumblebee’s expression became warm and tender. He rolled towards him, raising his hands to bracket the sides of Sam’s face. The way that the holoform looked at him, really _looked_ at him, made Sam feel as though he were something precious.

“I enjoy it very much.” Bee murmured, pressing a kiss against the bridge of Sam’s nose, “You are very pretty when you beg.”

Sam’s blush deepened to vivid crimson, and he groaned softly.

“Bee, we really will be in bed all day if you keep talking like that.”

Bumblebee pulled back, smiling at him almost apologetically.

“About that. Your mother has been calling you for the last twenty minutes.” Bumblebee replied, “I sent her a text message from you to say that you were just getting up.”

Bumblebee’s words were like a bucket of cold water, and he groaned as he pushed up into a sitting position.

“I better go shower. She’ll be knocking down the door before too long.”

“Go on, then.” Bee agreed, smiling at him, “I’ll text her to let her know you won’t be long.”

Sam smiled back at him, before shuffling to the edge of the mattress and climbing to his feet. As he made his way into the bathroom, he glanced over his shoulder towards the bed. Bumblebee’s holoform laid in the mess of sheets and blankets, clothed once again, with a thoroughly content look on his face. The sight made Sam’s heart flutter with a complicated twist of emotions, and without second-guessing himself, he pushed the swell of it across their bond. The answering thrum of _affection-satisfaction- **mine**_ stayed with Sam the entire time that he was in the shower.

By the time that Sam was brushing his teeth a short while later, he felt a warning _nudge_ from across their bond. He understood at once that his mother had arrived. He huffed a heavy sigh, spitting the toothpaste into the sink and rinsing out his mouth. He wrapped his towel around his waist, holding it with one hand, before making his way back into the bedroom. As he crossed the entryway towards his closet, his mother called out to him.

“Good morning, Sammy. Did you sleep well?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see that his mother was sitting on the couch, her arm resting against the outside back as she turned to regard him. He felt his cheeks heat, and he ducked his head as he made his way to the closet.

“Ma, do you mind? I’m not even dressed.” He complained in embarrassment, rooting through his closet one-handed.

“I brought you some breakfast. I thought we could go for a walk after you’ve had something to eat.” She called back, as though he hadn’t spoken, “Ratchet suggested we visit… is it Eclipse Point? Near the souvenir shop.”

Sam stuck his head around the corner, staring at her in mounting exasperation.

“When were you talking to Ratchet?” He asked.

“Oh, we spent part of the morning together.” She replied, oblivious to the way that Sam winced his eyes shut, “He showed us around the Hive—honestly, what a strange name for a military base—and then he introduced us to his employees.”

Sam stepped back around the corner, pulling on his clothes as quickly as he was able.

“His employees?” He asked loudly, yanking his shirt over his head.

“Hoist and First Aid.” Bumblebee replied, an edge of amusement in his voice. Sam sighed, leaning against the doorframe as he pulled on his socks.

“They aren’t his employees Ma, they’re his subordinates.” He corrected dryly, making his way into the living room. She stood up as he approached, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a hug, before pushing him towards the couch. As Sam sat down, his eyebrows rose to his hairline of their own accord. His mother had brought a cafeteria tray heaping with an assortment of food and drink—fruit, pastries, pancakes and bacon, yogurt, juice, and a carton of milk.

“Ma, I can’t eat all this.” He spluttered.

“Ratchet said that you didn’t get enough to eat yesterday.” She said, patting his shoulder before she made her way into his bedroom. He twisted to watch her go, feeling equal parts flabbergasted and resigned.

“What are you doing?”

“I noticed your dirty clothes are piling up.” She said, as though that explained everything. He blinked at her in confusion, before he realized her intention. He pushed himself to his feet, quickly stepping around the couch and walking into the bedroom. His mother had already dug out a pile of dirty clothes and bath linens from the floor of the closet.

“Ma!” Sam protested, aghast, “You don’t have to wash my laundry!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Agent Carter showed us the laundromat this morning.”

Sam felt his cheeks heat in a combination of exasperation and embarrassment. He took a moment to compose his voice, before he tried again, “Ma, you’re here to visit, not to do housework.”

“I can do both.” She said, glancing at him with a glimmer of disapproval, “Go eat your breakfast.”

Before Sam could protest, his mother gathered the dirty laundry in her arms and then dropped it onto the bed. In the next moment, she was pulling the sheets off the mattress with quick, efficient tugs. Once the sheets were free, she gathered up the bundle—bedding, clothing, and all—and carried it towards the front door.

“That breakfast better be finished by the time I get back.” She called over her shoulder, and then she walked out of the apartment. As the door shut behind her, Sam turned to look helplessly at Bumblebee. The holoform was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and an easy-going smile on his face. When Sam’s stare turned pointed, Bee raised his shoulders in a cheerful shrug.

“You heard the lady.” He said, inclining his head towards his breakfast tray, “Time to eat.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but walked over and sat down on the couch all the same.

“I don’t know whether to be worried or relieved that Mom and Dad spent the morning with Ratchet.” Sam grumbled, taking a drink, “On one hand, I figured they wouldn’t leave North Quad their entire visit, on the other hand, no good can come of my mother and Ratchet getting to know one another.”

Bumblebee laughed softly, pushing off the wall to cross the space between them.

“They are both very determined.” Bumblebee replied, diplomatically.

Sam quirked a smile around a mouthful of banana, “That’s one word for it. You could also use stubborn, single-minded, and overbearing.”

Although the Creator-bond remained still and quiet, Sam was sure that he hadn’t imagined the _scoff_ of disapproval in the back of his mind. The sensation made him laugh quietly as he reached for the yogurt.

 _Serves you right_. He sent, as loudly as he could. The admonishing _rap_ that followed a moment later was entirely worth it, Sam decided with a grin.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your enthusiasm and support. This story wouldn't have been possible without you guys.

Thundercracker adjusted his telemetry, banking 20 degrees west and pushing power to his thrusters. His stabilizers protested the abrupt change in speed and trajectory, but his secondary processors quickly compensated. Fifty thousand feet below him, the verdant lowlands of the Argentinian Pampas were rapidly transitioning into the rugged Sierras Pampeanas—lush green vegetation falling away, replaced with scrub brush and cacti along the eastern skirts of the small mountain chain. The late afternoon was cool and clear, with winds out of the north and negligible wind shear. Although Thundercracker had limited experience flying on planets with such calamitous atmospheres, the conditions that afternoon were perfect for patrol.

Unfortunately, Thundercracker was in no mood to enjoy it.

He flicked his wing flaps in frustration, ignoring the _thrum_ of disapproval from Starscream. Ever since they had spoken with Megatron on the bridge of the _Nemesis_ , Thundercracker had been unable to think of anything else. The entire interaction confounded his processors. The Seeker had expected Megatron to be enraged, perhaps even violent. He had not expected the warlord’s dark amusement or the uncharacteristic way that he had spoken about the Autobot leader. After mega-cycles of contemplation, Thundercracker was forced to admit that Megatron’s tone had been almost _fond_.

He banked again, forced to adjust his telemetry for the third time as a result of his distraction. Immediately, his visual display informed him of an incoming ping from the Decepticon Air Commander. Inwardly, he sighed.

_//You don’t need to ping me, Starscream. I know.//_

_//Take my position. You are clearly in no mind to fly point.//_ His trine mate replied, words overlaid with signifiers of anger and derision.

Thundercracker grimaced, but he dutifully banked and twisted in an aerial maneuver that had him assume the right flank position across from Skywarp. Starscream settled into place as trine leader, his stabilizers less than a dozen meters from Thundercracker’s nose cone. Skywarp pinged him a wordless pulse of sympathy, but he did not respond. No longer in point position, Thundercracker relegated his telemetry protocols to his secondary processor, and focused instead on the issue at hand.

No matter how often Thundercracker replayed his memory files of the failed parlay, he could not make sense of the Decepticon leader’s reaction. Prime had been cold and standoffish in a way that Thundercracker had never seen before. To the best of his recollection, he could not remember a time when such a challenge to the authority of the Lord High Commander had not been met with swift and brutal violence.

 _//We are almost a klik off of our flight plan.//_ Starscream snapped, the glow of his afterburners brightening from red-orange to incandescent yellow as he sharply accelerated.

Thundercracker adjusted his velocity to match his trine leader’s without comment. He had understood perfectly well that the observation had been an insult. As the western edge of the Sierras Pampeanas fell away beneath them, the Chilean Andes became visible in the distance. The fact that they were quickly approaching the _Nemesis_ caused Thundercracker’s fuel tanks to roil with uncertainty. 

When Prime had originally agreed to parlay, his reply had been overlaid with signifiers of stoic calm and acceptance. When they had landed at Diego Garcia, however, the Prime had kept his fields tight against his frame, betraying nothing of his mood. Why had Prime welcomed them so readily, only to dismiss them with such prejudice less than a solar cycle later? It was clear that something had changed between the time that the Seekers had initially contacted the Autobots and when they had landed at the airfield. Thundercracker had a strong suspicion that it had to do with Prime’s personal message to Megatron—and worse, he was certain that it had to do with Sam.

Yet despite himself, he could not reason it out. If Knock Out, Deadlock, and Ambulon had defected, as Soundwave reported, then the Autobots would certainly have access to their memory files. The Prime would have known everything there was to know by the time that they had initially contacted the Autobots.

Thundercracker’s spark clenched in its casing, his uncertainty deepening to the point of anxiety. The only way that Prime could have garnered additional information about Sam’s captivity would have been from Sam himself. Yet he was certain that Megatron had not abused the boy—Knock Out would have seen the physical evidence of it. When Thundercracker had visited him in the medical bay, Sam had been pale and distraught, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear. That left the possibility that Megatron had told him something, threatened him perhaps, but what could Megatron have possibly said to cause the Autobot leader to refuse parlay?

As they approached the _Nemesis_ , Thundercracker caught sight of Megatron’s sleek black alt mode as he lifted off the flight deck. The warframe had resumed his preferred form of a Cybertronian jet, having temporarily adopted an F-22 alt mode in order to transport the boy from Diego Garcia. The Decepticon leader streaked passed them on his way north, assuming his leg of the patrol. Thundercracker’s train of thought was temporarily interrupted as they went through arrival protocols, and a moment later, they landed in the open-air hangar.

As soon as Starscream transformed, he rounded on Thundercracker with narrowed optics.

“What was that?” He demanded, hands on his hip struts, “I’ve seen sparklings with better precision flying.”

Thundercracker snorted internally at the exaggeration, but Starscream wasn’t finished.

“I won’t have such sloppiness in my trine, Thundercracker.” Starscream snapped, “It’s unbecoming of your station.”

Thundercracker became aware of the curious glances directed their way by the few Seekers and Jets that were working on the flight deck. He resisted the urge to bristle at the fact that Starscream dared to dress him down in public, well aware that his humiliation was the goal. Stiffly, he crossed an arm over his chassis and bowed deeply at the waist.

“Forgive me, Air Commander. It will not happen again.”

“See that it does not.” Starscream replied coldly with a cant of his wings. Skywarp shifted from pede to pede beside him, obviously uncomfortable. Without waiting to be dismissed, Thundercracker pivoted sharply and strode towards the large doors at the opposite end of the flight deck. As he crossed the hangar, he received a notification of an incoming ping on an encrypted channel from Skywarp. He shunted it aside without acknowledgement. 

Thundercracker’s mind was a whirlwind of conjecture as he made his way deeper into the ship. Starscream had been single-minded and short tempered ever since the debriefing. The Air Commander was also certain that Megatron was keeping things from him, but unlike Thundercracker, Starscream was not convinced that it had anything to do with the boy. Although Thundercracker had tried, in his roundabout way, to urge his trine mate to investigate further, Starscream seemed content to observe as the fallout of the failed parlay played itself out.

He ground his dentae together in frustration. He knew that he should let it go—that the affairs of Primes and Lord High Protectors were none of his concern. Yet, when he thought of Sam, thin and suffering on the medical berth, he could not get the image out of his processor. The memory file played itself on loop, almost like a glitch, and he wondered again what could possibly have happened to so change the Prime’s attitude towards parlay. Thundercracker cycled air through his vents with more force than strictly necessary. Despite his frustration and uncertainty, he knew that Megatron was not about to be forthcoming, and there was no one else who could assuage the Seeker’s burning desire for answers.

Thundercracker turned down the corridor towards his personal quarters, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. If Megatron would not discuss the significance of Prime’s message, then perhaps Soundwave could provide some clarification. He stopped in his tracks, a frown pulling at his mouthplates at the ridiculous idea. The third-in-command was the least personable mechanoid on the ship. With the exception of his symbionts, Soundwave spoke only to issue commands or request clarification. The communications specialist was also the most loyal to Megatron’s cause. There was no way that Soundwave would discuss his Master with Thundercracker, of all mechanoids.

Putting the thought out of his mind, Thundercracker continued towards his quarters. The ship was dark and quiet, illuminated only by the soft, red glow of the emergency lights. As he reached his door, however, the thought of Soundwave niggled back into his processor. It was true that the third-in-command was loyal to Megatron, but what harm could come in asking for his council? Thundercracker’s intentions were honest, after all, and he had nothing to hide.

Thundercracker found himself striding passed his apartment and down the long, empty corridor towards the menagerie. As he walked, he reflected on the absurdity of what he was about to do. Anything that Thundercracker asked Soundwave would be reported to Megatron as soon as he returned from his patrol. He would need to be cautious, and above all else, mindful of his fields.

A short while later, Thundercracker found himself standing in front of the large double doors of Soundwave’s personal quarters. He hesitated for a long moment, before he thumbed the console set into the wall. Almost as soon as he pressed the page button, the door slid open revealing the third-in-command’s menagerie. Thundercracker carefully schooled his features, before he stepped into the darkened room. As a Carrier-class mechanoid, Soundwave’s quarters were larger than most, with a mezzanine for his cassettes. Soundwave stood at the far wall, in front of his large workstation. A flash of motion caught Thundercracker’s attention and he glanced up. Laserbeak winged from her perch to the railing of the mezzanine, her golden feathers glittering in the low light. Ratbat and Buzzsaw watched him from the shadows of their hutch, silent and observant.

“Thundercracker: welcomed.” Soundwave rumbled in his unusual monotone. Thundercracker’s optics flicked back to the third-in-command as he stepped more fully into the room. It was only then that he saw the lithe form of Ravage, curled around the pedes of her Master. Her single red optic tracked his movement, and all at once, Thundercracker wondered what processor-glitch had resulted in his decision to come here.

Soundwave pushed away from his workstation, crossing the room towards him with silent strides. Thundercracker hesitated, debating whether he should extricate himself, when Soundwave stopped in front of him.

“Thundercracker: query.” He rumbled. It took the Seeker a minute to realize that the statement was actually a question. His lip plates turned down in a faint frown, but something possessed him to speak anyway.

“As you know, I have returned from the failed parlay. Prime gave me a message to share with Lord Megatron.”

“Affirmative: message successfully relayed.”

“Yes, it was. Our Master’s reaction surprised me—I had not expected his good humor.” Thundercracker replied slowly.

“Affirmative: Lord Megatron is intrigued by the Prime’s uncharacteristic response.”

Thundercracker resisted the urge to frown deeply. Had the third-in-command noticed the fondness in Megatron’s tone as well?

“I do not understand the Prime’s message. He said that he had knowledge that Lord Megatron’s senior officers do not.” Thundercracker hesitated, “What knowledge?”

“Information: restricted.” Soundwave replied.

Thundercracker stiffened in surprise, his optics narrowing minutely.

“You know, then?”

“Affirmative.”

“Does it have to do with Sam?” Thundercracker demanded.

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker ex-vented sharply, his processors whirling with speculation and conjecture. He took a moment to school his fields, and then he pinned the third-in-command with a level look.

“Is Sam the reason why Prime has refused to parlay?”

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker’s fuel pump skipped a beat at the confirmation. If Prime had refused to parlay because of Sam, then he had to have learned something about Sam between the time that Thundercracker originally contacted the Autobots and when they arrived for the parlay. He glanced up at the third-in-command, who was watching him passively, as though waiting for Thundercracker to marshal his thoughts.

“What happened to him?” He asked, bluntly.

“Information: restricted.” Soundwave repeated. Thundercracker ground his dentae in frustration as Soundwave’s game became clear: he wouldn’t share information, but he would not deny it either.

“I don’t understand. Megatron’s punishment was severe, but the boy was otherwise unmolested—“

“Negative.”

Thundercracker frowned at the interruption, “What do you mean, negative? I saw him, he didn’t have a mark on his body. Not even his healing factor would work that quickly.”

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker narrowed his optics at the third-in-command, his irritation and uncertainty bleeding into his fields. It was becoming readily apparent that Thundercracker was well out of his depth—the communications specialist was clearly maneuvering him to his own purposes. Deciding that the best approach was to be direct, Thundercracker stepped towards the large Carrier-class mechanoid, his optics narrowed with intent.

“Sam was isolated, kept in stasis, and made to share quarters with Megatron. Is there more?”

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker wracked his processors, trying to think of what else Megatron could have done to justify Optimus Prime, of all mechanoids, to refuse a peaceful parlay. As far as he could tell, the Decepticon leader had never struck the boy in anger—

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker’s head snapped up, his fields flaring with fear and alarm as the communications specialist replied to his unspoken thoughts. He hastily double-checked his firewells and filters, before he stepped back warily. There were rumors about Soundwave, of course. The third-in-command had the uncanny ability to infer what others were thinking, to anticipate actions and reactions in a way that was unparalleled. Mechanoids whispered behind his back that he was a freak, a psychic or a telepath, and Thundercracker suddenly found himself forced to revise his opinions of those rumors.

Soundwave continued to watch him, implacable as ever, as Thundercracker worked through the implications of this knowledge.

“That’s how you know what happened. Megatron didn’t tell you anything about it, did he?”

“Affirmative.”

Fear prickled along the circuits of his processors as the enormity of that revelation began to dawn on him. What could have happened that Megatron did not even confide it in his most trusted advisor?

“If Megatron did not abuse the boy—“

“Negative.”

Thundercracker stepped back into the third-in-command’s space, optics narrowed in tightly leashed frustration, his earlier fear forgotten.

“You just said that Megatron never struck him.”

“Affirmative.”

“Are you referring to the Creator bond?”

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker’s frown returned. Everyone on the ship knew that Megatron had used the Creator bond to control the boy, including the use of their connection for punitive action. The knowledge had not sat well with the Creator-class mecha on board, including Starscream himself, much to the Air Commander’s irritation. Yet Megatron had reasoned that Sam was a human, not a sparkling, and most had grudgingly acquiesced to his reasoning.

“Knock Out knew about the use of the Creator bond to control him. Prime would have already had that information.”

“Affirmative.”

“So there was more?” Thundercracker asked, thoroughly at a loss. When Soundwave inclined his helm, almost gravely, the Seeker wracked his processors. What else could Megatron have possibly done through the bond to—

The thought came unbidden into Thundercracker’s processors, and he recoiled in revulsion at the very notion. Before he could speak, however, Soundwave shuttered his optics slowly.

“Affirmative.”

Thundercracker stiffened from helm to pede, stunned into silence. The very notion of using a Creator bond to inflict suffering on a newspark was abhorrent, but to initiate a charge? It was unspeakable, _unthinkable._

“No, not even Megatron would do such a thing.” Thundercracker denied, unwilling to believe it.

“Opinion: irrelevant. Facts: undisputable.”

Thundercracker stared at the third-in-command in disbelief, but eventually his processors caught up with him and everything fell neatly into place. Sam’s abrupt and startling deterioration, his suicidal ideation—and the coldness of Prime’s black anger as he dismissed them out of hand at Diego Garcia.

“Primus…” Thundercracker whispered, as the implications of the knowledge began to spin through his mind, “What are we going to do?”

Soundwave watched him for a long moment before he turned, walking back across the room to his workstation. He reached a large servo to rest against Ravage’s broad head, as he turned to pin Thundercracker with an implacable stare.

“Trajectory: unknown, but conclusion: inevitable. Change is coming.”

* * *

Sam worked through his breakfast with the grim determination of a solider preparing for war. By the time that his mother had returned from the laundromat with his father in tow, he had eaten enough to earn himself an approving hum. His mother arranged the uneaten fruit and pastries on a paper plate, which she left on the coffee table, before cleaning away the rest of his tray. His father stepped around the couch, glancing down at the plate of food as he approached. He considered the selection for a second, and then he snagged a Danish as he sat on the couch beside him.

“Ron, those are for Sam.” His mother scolded, from where she stood scraping his plate into the garbage.

“These are family pastries.” His father corrected, taking a bite as he clapped Sam on the shoulder, “First come, first served.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he could not deny the swell of affection and relief that he felt at the heavy weight of his father’s hand against him.

“Ron, honestly, you just had lunch.” His mother complained, walking across the room to stand in front of them with her arms folded over her chest, “Remember your cholesterol.”

Sam glanced at his father in surprise, something like anxiety twisting in his gut.

“You have high cholesterol?”

His father grunted, taking another bite of the Danish, “High cholesterol, high blood pressure, high triglycerides. It’s a wonder of modern medicine that I’m not dead yet.”

“Ron!” His mother hissed, her face flushing with disapproval, “That’s not funny.”

Although Sam agreed with his mother, his father raised his shoulders in a shrug, “I’ve been exercising and watching my weight. I can have a Danish, Judy.”

If the look on his mother’s face was anything to go by, she very much disagreed with his father’s opinion on the matter. Before she could launch into an angry lecture, however, Sam broke into a wide smile as he changed the subject.

“So, you guys wanted to see Eclipse Point? It’s pretty, great view of the bay. We could go shopping afterwards, if you wanted. There’s a souvenir shop and a commissary near the beach.”

His mother and father looked at him, as though in surprise. Sam continued before they could reply.

“Afterwards we could have supper at the Officer’s Club. It’s really nice, I’ve eaten there a few times.”

His mother’s face warmed with a smile, “I remember you told us about the Officer’s Club the last time we visited. You took the Ambassadors to eat there.”

Sam laughed lightly, relieved that his attempt at misdirection had been successful, “Yeah, that’s right. It’s fancier than the dining hall, but I think you’ll like it.”

Twenty minutes later, Sam, his mother, and his father had piled into Bumblebee’s cab. They made their way through the downtown area towards Eclipse Point. As soon as they arrived, Bumblebee dutifully opened his doors for them, as his holoform flickered to life by his front bumper. The beach was beautiful, even by Diego Garcia’s standards. It was a thin strip of white sand, unmarred by rocks or vegetation, which curved around the point. It overlooked Eclipse Bay, a blue-green expanse of water that glistened in the afternoon sunlight. Across the water, the rise of Barton Point was visible, a distant swath of sand and vegetation. To the northwest, the ocean spread out towards the horizon, as far as the eye could see.

The only negative aspect of the beach was that its beauty, ideal swimming conditions, and proximity to the base meant that it was crowded with off-duty personnel looking to cool off in the mid-afternoon heat. As a result, they stayed at the Point only long enough to walk from Short Pier all the way around to the Officer’s Club. The sky was a perfect, clear blue and the sun shone brightly down on them. By the time that they climbed back over the dunes towards Nelson Road, sweat was trickling down between Sam’s shoulder blades. His mother and his father did not look much better—they were both flushed red, with perspiration beaded across their foreheads.

“Oh my goodness, it is so hot here.” His mother complained, fanning herself with a hand, “Arizona is only 70 degrees in the afternoon, and it’s a dry heat.”

Sam quirked a smile at her, “We’re in the tropics, Ma.”

“I’ve been in saunas with less humidity.” His father grunted disapprovingly.

Sam laughed lightly in response. His father had grown up in Chicago before moving to California—he had never done well with humidity.

“It’s pretty bad in the late afternoon.” Sam agreed, “But it’s really nice in the evening, after it cools off. The sunsets are unbelievable.”

As they came to the intersection of Nelson and Nimitz Road, Sam pointed down the street.

“That’s the barber shop, the souvenir shop is next door. Did you want to go?”

“Anything to get out of this god-forsaken heat.” His mother replied.

They made their way down the street, Sam and Bumblebee walking side-by-side, and his parents following behind them. Bumblebee’s alt mode pulled ahead of their small group, accelerating down the road to pull into the small lot beside the shop. When they finally stepped through the door into the cool exterior of the building, Sam could not suppress his sigh of relief. It was a moderately sized shop, with squat shelves of clothing, memorabilia, and miscellaneous items. To Sam’s surprise, he saw that most of the items were themed by nationality—American, United Kingdom, Canadian, Indian, and more. Despite the fact that NEST was an Autobot base, there was nothing with either NEST’s logo or the Autobot’s insignia to be found in the shop. The thought made Sam’s lips quirk in amusement—he couldn’t imagine Optimus mulling over t-shirt designs or signing off on commemorative Autobot-themed license plates.

His mother made her way over to the cooler located near the cash register, retrieving three bottles of water. She handed one each to Sam and his father, before opening her own and taking a deep drink. Sam resisted the urge to chide her, instead pulling his identification badge from around his neck and handing it to the surprised-looking private standing on the other side of the counter.

“Sir, uh, Mr. Ambassador. Good afternoon.” He stammered, snapping off a salute as an afterthought, “Will this be all?”

Sam was aware of the way that his mother and father had gone still beside him, and he kept the wince off his face with great effort.

“Yeah, thanks Private… Walsh.” Sam replied, glancing at the man’s nametape as he spoke.

As Sam turned around to look at his mother and father, he caught the look on Bumblebee’s face. The holoform was standing behind his parents, his arms folded over his chest, with quiet amusement written all over his expression. He narrowed his eyes minutely at the holoform, daring him to say something, when Bumblebee winked at him. Sam felt his face warm with embarrassment, and he took a drink of water to hide his expression.

The rest of the afternoon passed by amiably enough. They wandered from the souvenir shop to the library, and then to the commissary. Sam took the opportunity to order himself a mini fridge and a microwave and, at his mother’s insistence, an electric kettle. Afterwards, they made their way to the Officer’s Club. His mother was expressive with her praise, complimenting everything from the décor, to the silverware, to the wine menu, as though Sam had had a hand in any of it. His father was reserved, responding to his mother’s questions and occasionally directing a comment towards his son, but otherwise he kept to himself. Bumblebee excused himself for the duration of their meal, allowing Sam time alone with his parents for the first time in almost three years.

The food was excellent, as usual. His father ordered the sea bass and a whiskey, while his mother had the shrimp penne and a glass of house wine. Sam declined anything at first, until his mother pinned him with a disapproving frown, and then he hastily selected the chicken risotto. As an afterthought, he asked for a glass of whatever they had on tap. The waiter nodded, tucking his pad into the pocket of his apron, before making his way back through the crowded dining room. When Sam glanced up at his parents, he was surprised to see them staring at him with emotional expressions on their faces.

“The drinking age is eighteen.” He explained in confusion, but his mother reached across the table to grasp his hand in hers.

“Look at you, Sammy. All grown up.”

Sam stared at her in surprise, a flush spreading across his cheeks, but his father interrupted before he could reply.

“This’ll be your first Superbowl that you can drink. You’ll need it—the 49’ers are against the Chiefs.”

Sam didn’t have the heart to correct his father—that he had already had the quintessential American experience without him—and instead he smiled.

“The 49’ers made it to the Superbowl? I can’t believe Dave didn’t say anything to me.”

“Yeah, next Sunday.” His father agreed, something warming in his countenance, “The 49’ers don’t have a prayer.”

Sam huffed a laugh, reaching out to pick up his glass of ice water. The conversation quickly descended into a spirited argument about who had the better chance of winning. Sam and his mother were 49’ers fans, of course, but having grown up in Illinois, his father was a Bears loyalist. By the time they finished eating, Sam felt warm with something other than the two beers that he had had with his meal.

As they stepped back into the mellow heat of the early evening, his father raised his hand to his mouth to hide a yawn. Immediately, Sam felt a wash of guilt as he remembered that they were almost twelve hours behind him. To his relief, neither of his parents argued when he insisted that they get some rest. Bumblebee’s alt mode arrived a short while later, and together they returned to the Hive. As his parents made to walk into North Quad, his mother paused, stepping back to settle a kiss on his forehead. Sam smiled at her, kissing her back on the cheek, before he shooed her away.

As the doors shut behind them, Sam found himself leaning against Bumblebee’s alt mode tiredly. It was only then that his guardian informed him that Knock Out had finally relented—the medic had sworn his allegiance to Prime and accepted the Autobot insignia. Sam turned to look down at him incredulously.

“What?” He spluttered, pulling open the driver’s side door, “Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your time with your parents. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

Sam settled into the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I want to see him. Can we go?”

By way of answer, Bumblebee’s engine rolled over and the lights brightened on his dash. Together, they accelerated through the bridge, making their way to the receiving room. As they drove, Bumblebee caught him up on how it had happened. Knock Out had been unusually agreeable since Sam’s visit, no longer insulting Ultra Magnus or Hot Rod, and accepting his rations without complaint. That morning, apropos of nothing, Knock Out had declared that he was wasn’t sitting in the brig for one moment longer, and if Prime wanted his allegiance, then he could have it. After some heated discussion among Optimus’ senior officers, the Autobot leader had allowed Knock Out to kneel and recite the oath. As soon as he had finished, the medic straightened to his full height and tore the Decepticon insignia off his chassis with his bare hands.

Sam raised his eyebrows at the news, “That had to hurt.”

“I would imagine so.” Bumblebee agreed, dryly, “He’s at the _Ark_ now. Ratchet has assigned him to the clinic.”

“Really? I am surprised that Ratchet accepted him into the medical corps. Knock Out must be relieved.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that.” Bumblebee replied, enigmatically. Sam frowned at the dashboard in confusion, but the scout did not clarify any further. It was not until they approached the _Ark's_ clinic a short while later that Sam understood his bonded’s reticence. Knock Out’s shrill voice echoed down the corridor towards them, accompanied by the occasional ringing of metal against metal as items were seemingly thrown around the hangar.

Hot Rod stood outside of the clinic. He was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor, his arms folded over his chassis and a supremely unimpressed look on his faceplates. He glanced in their direction as they approached.

“Evening Bee, Sam.” Hot Rod greeted flatly.

“Hey Roddy.” Sam said, coming to a stop beside him. From this angle, Sam could not see into the clinic, but the light from the room spilled into the hallway through the open entryway, “What are you doing here?”

“Prime has put Knock Out on probation. I’m his escort until Kup decides otherwise.” Roddy replied. Sam could infer from the cavalier’s clipped tone that he was not pleased with the assignment. Before he could reply, he heard another loud _clang_ from inside the clinic.

“This is a waste of my time and talents—I used to have my own medical bay, for Pit’s sake.” Knock Out snapped, his words punctuated by the ringing of metal against metal. If Sam had to guess, he’d say that Knock Out had stamped his pede to emphasize his point.

“Ratchet thinks that you could use the time to get used to his filing system.” First Aid’s disembodied voice replied, soothingly, “He likes things in a very particular way.”

“I went to the Protihex Medical Mechanics University, just the same as Ratchet.” Knock Out replied, scathingly, “I can figure out a fragging _filing system_.”

Hot Rod ex-vented loudly, his head falling back to clang against the corridor wall. Sam glanced up at the cavalier, a sympathetic smile on his face. 

“He’s not so bad, once you get to know him.” Sam said, earnestly.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” Hot Rod replied, dryly, “He is very…”

The cavalier punctuated his words with a mimed gesture of drinking tea, complete with a pinky in the air. Sam frowned up at him, confused.

“He’s very… what? British?”

“Royalty?” Bumblebee guessed, wryly.

Sam turned to grin at him appreciatively, “Nice one. Yeah, Roddy, are you calling him the Queen of England?”

Hot Rod made an impatient sound, “High maintenance. He’s very high maintenance.”

“ _That’s_ how you pantomime high maintenance?” Sam asked, incredulously, “Remind me never to partner with you in charades.”

Bumblebee whistled at him amusedly, much to Hot Rod’s obvious irritation.

“Joke around all you want, I’m the one who has to babysit him.”

Something about the cavalier’s petulant tone made Sam fold his arms over his chest and pin Hot Rod with a considerate stare.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I’d imagine that he enjoys your company.” 

Hot Rod glanced at him, suspiciously. 

“Why do you say that?”

Sam shrugged, “Well, I know for a fact that he thinks you’re good looking.”

Hot Rod visibly stiffened, his expression morphing into one of stunned disbelief.

“He _what_?”

Before Sam could reply, Knock Out appeared in the entryway with an irate expression on his face, “You! If you are just going to stand there being useless, then you can—“

The medic’s tirade abruptly cut off as his optics settled on Sam. The anger in his countenance smoothed away, replaced with something like mild surprise.

“Hello KO.” Sam greeted, ignoring Roddy’s stunned expression at the epithet, “Having fun, I take it?”

Knock Out snorted as he folded his arms over his chassis and leaned against the doorframe.

“Your Creator has a twisted sense of revenge.” He complained, “I should be in the medical bay, not relegated to this third-rate clinic.”

“The _Ark_ is the crown jewel of Cybertron’s fleet.” Sam replied patiently, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

Knock Out lifted a shoulder pauldron in a shrug, “You certainly could have fooled me.”

Before Sam could reply, First Aid appeared in the doorway beside Knock Out. The red and white medic’s face brightened as soon as he saw Sam standing in the corridor.

“Good afternoon, buddy!” First Aid chirped enthusiastically.

Sam laughed lightly at the way Hot Rod and Knock Out turned to look at the medic in comically perfect unison, “Hey ‘Aid, how goes it?”

First Aid hesitated for a long moment, before he replied, cautiously, “It has been an informative afternoon.”

“I’ll bet.” Bumblebee replied dryly.

At his words, Knock Out turned to look at the scout for the first time since they had arrived. The medic’s expression was scrutinizing and closed off.

“So this is your bonded.” Knock Out replied at last, “It’s nice to meet you properly, Bumblebee.”

Bumblebee stared at the medic in naked surprise, obviously taken aback by his civility. Before he could reply, however, Knock Out gestured meaningfully between him and Sam.

“I never would have imagined that Prime’s golden boy would go and get himself shacked up with an organic—no offense, Sam.”

Bumblebee stiffened from head to toe, an indignant noise squealing from his vocalizer. Hot Rod moved away from the wall in an instant, looking between the scout and the medic, as though he was not sure which one he might have to restrain. Before either of them could speak, however, Sam snorted a loud laugh.

“Knock Out, you are such an asshole.” He replied good-naturedly, “Don’t take your hissy fit out on me.”

The medic looked down at him for a long moment, before something like fond amusement warmed the edges of his expression.

“Evidentially, I have work to do that is of the greatest importance imaginable.” Knock Out drawled at last, “As nice as it was to see you again, I am afraid I must get back to it.”

As Sam smiled at him understandingly, Knock Out made to step back into the clinic. He paused on the threshold, turning to look at Bumblebee over his shoulder. He stared at the scout meaningfully for the space of a heartbeat, and then he was gone. A moment later, First Aid waved good-bye to Sam and then he followed after him.

Hot Rod looked from Sam, to Knock Out, and back again, before he crouched down in front of him.

“So seriously, though… what _exactly_ did he say about me?”

* * *

Less than a half an hour later, Sam and Bumblebee made their way through North Quad towards the Officer’s section. To Sam’s surprise, his bonded was in an amiable mood, apparently having gotten over the offense that Knock Out had caused. As they walked together, Sam glanced over at the holoform. Bumblebee’s hands were in his pockets and a good-natured expression was on his face—the sight of it caused a swell of affection that took Sam’s breath away. He brushed against Bumblebee’s signature, leaning into the winter-white glow as their bond blossomed between them. The holoform glanced at Sam in surprise, but before he could say anything, Sam wrapped around his bonded’s familiar presence.

As they stepped towards Sam’s apartment, he glanced up and down the hall. The long corridor was quiet and empty at the late hour, and Sam took the opportunity to grasp Bumblebee’s hand. He laced their fingers together as he pressed his badge against the card reader set into the wall. The holoform’s expression softened with affection—and with a hint of something else—as he leaned down to kiss him. Sam made an appreciative sound, his hands coming up to card through Bumblebee’s short hair, as he pushed open the door and stepped into his apartment.

As the door swung shut behind them, Sam deepened the kiss and Bumblebee hummed at him approvingly. Before either of them could speak, however, Sam heard a hesitant cough from behind them. His head snapped around to take in the sight of his mother standing there with a half-folded towel in her hands and a shocked expression on her face. The beginnings of Sam’s arousal flashed into mortified embarrassment so quickly that it made him feel lightheaded.

“Oh my god.” Sam managed, blushing fire engine red to the roots of his hair, “ _Ma?_ ”

“Hello Sammy.” She replied, hesitantly, “Ratchet let me in. I wanted to finish your laundry before I went to bed.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, resignation and dread churning in his stomach as he made his decision. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked plaintively at his mother.

“I think you better sit down, Ma. We need to talk.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** \- Thank-you all SO MUCH! This week marks 300 kudos on _Signature_ , which I published mid-September. When I wrote the first chapter, I decided that I would consider the story 'successful' if it hit 300 kudos. Thank-you all for making that happen! I have also exceeded 100k words on _Tribulations_ and surpassed 10k views on the series. **Thank-you guys, from the bottom of my heart**. I am so sincerely appreciative for all of your enthusiasm and support.

At once, his mother’s expression clouded with concern. She began to worry the towel that she was holding, twisting the blue terrycloth in her hands. The sight of her face, pale and drawn, settled like a weight in Sam’s stomach.

 _//Would you like to be alone?//_ Bumblebee asked, his mental presence brushing against him like a caress. Sam glanced sidelong at the holoform. He stood less than an arms-length away—close, but well within the bounds of propriety—with an open, understanding expression on his face. 

“No,” Sam replied, after a moment, “I’d like you to stay.”

Bumblebee nodded slowly, “Then I’ll stay.”

Sam turned to look at his mother, steeling himself with grim determination as he gestured to the couch, “Sit with me.”

His mother’s eyes flicked to the sofa, before looking back to him. Her lips pulled up in a self-conscious, hesitant smile.

“Sammy, it’s alright.” She said, taking a step towards him, “It doesn’t matter if you’re… if you like boys or girls, your father and I love you.”

Sam winced his eyes shut as he lowered himself onto the couch. He had never given much thought to his sexual orientation, either before or after he had bonded. Prior to the spark bond, Sam would have classified himself as exclusively heterosexual—or at least, all of his sexual experience and fantasies had revolved around women. Yet, he did not think it was accurate to say that he was gay, either. He had been first attracted to Bumblebee’s bipedal mode, after all, and to his knowledge, there was no label for people attracted to genderless, asexual, autonomous robotic organisms.

Sam felt a warm pulse of amusement through the spark bond, and he glanced at the holoform in exasperation. Bumblebee’s lips quirked up, although whether in humor or apology, Sam could not say. With effort, Sam turned to look at his mother and patted the cushion beside him.

“Please, Ma. It’s a long story.” Sam murmured, trying to marshal his thoughts, “I should have told you a while ago, but I didn’t know how. I still don’t.”

His mother stepped around the couch, slowly sitting down beside him. She held the towel in her lap, like a talisman, as she looked at him entreatingly.

“You can tell me anything, Sammy. You know that.”

Sam exhaled slowly, ducking his head. As he struggled to find the words to explain all that had happened over the last four years, Bumblebee moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table. The holoform was close enough that their knees could have brushed together, if Sam shifted his legs even slightly. The closeness that Bumblebee offered, while still respecting his personal space, gave him the confidence to begin speaking.

Sam started much as Optimus Prime had started, when they had first met in the alleyway in Tranquility. He spoke about the Allspark, its ability to generate new Cybertronian life, and its desperate ejection from Tyger Pax to avoid its seizure by Megatron. He spoke about the role that his grandfather had played in finding Megatron’s body, which his mother had already known, and the role the Allspark had played in revolutionizing human technology for the last sixty years, which she had not. Then he told her about all that had happened in Mission City, including his abortive attempt to get the Allspark to safety and, with much hesitation, how he had pushed the Cube into Megatron’s chest.

She stared at him as he spoke, pale but composed, as she finally asked, “How?”

He glanced at her in surprise. It was the first thing that she had said since he had begun talking.

“How what?”

“How did you push the Cube into his chest? He’s thirty feet tall, Sammy.”

Sam frowned, stymied by her question. He had no idea how it had happened—he had a vague memory of bright light and heat that bordered on pain crawling down his arms, but nothing else.

“I can’t explain it, Ma, but that’s what happened.” He said at last.

She nodded faintly, accepting his meager explanation, and Sam continued. He jumped forward in his narrative, speaking next about getting ready for university and finding the Allspark shard in his clothing. His mother snorted expressively, rolling her eyes.

“I remember. I had a bald spot for two months before my hair grew out enough to hide it.”

Sam’s amusement at her wry tone was short-lived. He told her, hesitantly, about the fits that had resulted from his re-exposure to the Allspark—about his visual and auditory hallucinations, his breakdown in his astronomy lecture and then again in his dorm room, and how it had attracted the attention of Soundwave’s Pretender. By the time that he paused to catch his breath, his mother’s face was drawn tight.

“I can’t believe you never said anything, Sam. We were there, we could have helped you.”

Sam openly grimaced, but he found the fortitude to look her in the eye and reply with sincere conviction, “No one could have helped me, Ma. The Allspark was in my head and in my body, there was nothing to be done about it.”

“What do you mean, ‘in your body’?” She demanded, sharply, and Sam winced internally at her astuteness. His eyes dropped to his hands as he took a moment to consider his response. As he stared down at himself, he realized that he had worried the skin of his knuckles until his skin was chapped and bleeding. After a long moment, he forced himself to reply to her.

“The Allspark energy is in my cells, Ma.”

His mother stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

“What, s _till_?”

Sam could not keep the grimace off his face, “Yeah, still.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean?” 

Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, ignoring the way that the motion pulled uncomfortably at his stiches.

“We don’t know what it means, Ma.” He replied, tiredly, “We just know that it’s happening.”

“Oh my god, Sammy.” She whispered, her voice stricken, “Are you… are you _dying_?”

Sam was unable to prevent the sharp bark of laughter that burst from him. Her question threatened the tenuous control that he had wrangled over his emotions, leaving him feeling peeled open and laid bare. Suddenly completely out of his depth and desperate for purchase, Sam dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. The pain was centering, grounding.

Through their bond, Sam could feel Bumblebee’s uncertainty deepen to stark concern.

“No, Ma,” He replied at last, hating the vulnerability that he could hear in his voice, “I’m not dying—but the Allspark energy has changed me.”

His mother did not speak. Instead, she shifted forward on the couch, taking his hand into her lap. With gentle touches, she brushed over his knuckles, coaxing him to unclench his fingers. When the tension finally released, she turned his hand over and murmured disapprovingly at the shallow crescents marring the flesh of his palms.

“Bumblebee, could you be a dear and get me a wet cloth?” She murmured, without looking up. The holoform pushed to his feet, stepping around the couch and walking into the bedroom without a word. When he returned a short while later, his mother accepted the folded facecloth and dabbed at the traces of blood.

“I’m here Sammy. Take all the time you need.”

Slowly, in fits and starts, Sam told his mother about the Allspark energy regenerating within his body. His voice was quiet and flat as he told her about its effects on his aging and on his ability to recover from injury. Although his mother did not interrupt him with questions or exclamations, her grip on his hand tightened to the point of pain. He hesitated for a long moment before he broached the subject of Ripcord. He softened the story as much as he was able, omitting the details about how he suffered on the hangar floor as he bled to death. His effort to spare her grief was for naught, however, and he flinched when he looked up to see tears welling in her eyes.

“Aww, Ma.” Sam murmured, unable to keep the waver out of his voice, “Please don’t cry.”

Judy brushed the moisture away with her thumbs, clearing her throat as she struggled to get herself under control. The visible strain on her face made Sam’s stomach twist with guilt. He gripped her hands as tightly as he could, willing her to understand and to be okay.

“I’m alright, Sammy.” She replied, her voice rough but composed, “Go on.”

Sam flinched, something like panic crawling up his throat to choke him. How could he possibly explain to his mother what had happened, when he barely understood it himself? How could he find the words to express the fact that her son—the one she had raised, and loved, and fussed over—was no longer the same person that she had kissed good-bye after Egypt?

How did he explain to her that he was _other_?

Bumblebee’s mental presence brushed against him, soothing and concerned. Sam glanced at the holoform to see that he was staring at Sam with an intensity of expression that he could not readily interpret. His body was tense, leaning forward slightly to transfer some of his weight onto the balls of his feet, but his face was a study of control. Sam leaned into his mental presence, grateful beyond words for his support.

The whole time that Sam struggled to pull himself together, his mother watched him quietly. Her thumb stroked over the back of his hand, again and again, as steady as a metronome. Sam sighed softly, resigning himself to the task. He took a deep breath, letting it out between clenched teeth, before he slowly, awkwardly, explained about the experience of on-lining. He told her about stasis, about Ratchet’s diligent care, and about waking up in the medical bay nineteen days later with the ability to access the neural network. His explanation about spark signatures and the neural-net was clumsy, even to his own ears, but his mother listened with rapt attention.

“Sammy, that’s… unbelievable.” She breathed, “How does it—what does it feel like?”

Sam’s lips quirked in a faint smile. He was familiar with the awed disbelief that he could hear in her voice.

“It’s… nice. It’s beautiful. Their spark signatures are as unique as thumbprints. Some glow, others shine. They communicate with much more than words—their messages are overlaid with impression and emotion and feeling. It’s more honest than the way we communicate with one another.”

His mother tilted her head, “The neural-net, that’s different than the… Creator bond?”

Sam nodded faintly, “The Creator bond exists between a Creator and a newspark. No one else can access the bond without the Creator’s approval.”

“And Ratchet is your Creator.” She said, only just keeping the upward inflection out of her voice.

“He is.” Sam agreed, smiling faintly, “He was a Creator long before the war began. I’m in good hands.”

“I can see that.” His mother murmured, before she asked apropos of nothing, “What does Ratchet’s spark signature look like?”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord, but he answered her readily, “It’s difficult to describe. He’s pale and light and warm—he’s old, too. I don’t know how light can look old, but he looks ancient.”

In the back of his mind, Sam felt Ratchet’s presence brighten with fond exasperation. As Sam shifted his attention towards him, the medic brushed against him contritely, almost regretfully. He understood at once that Ratchet was apologizing for the interruption. Sam pushed appreciation and affection towards him, mindful of his volume, before turning his attention back towards his mother. She was regarding him seriously, her expression intense and searching.

“I don’t know whether to be thankful or angry.” She said at last, laughing softly, “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know.” Sam replied.

“It certainly changes my perspective on things.” His mother admitted, “When you were taken, I was so angry. We had sent you here for your protection, and the Decepticons found you anyway. I guess there really was no way for us to hide you.”

“No Ma, there wasn’t.” He replied simply, “Megatron killed thirty-one people to get to me—there was no hiding from him.”

His mother hummed softly at his response, her eyes narrowed in thoughtful consideration. After a long moment, she glanced towards Bumblebee’s holoform.

“I suppose your relationship should come as no surprise, after everything I’ve learned. You two were always a package deal.” 

Sam’s lips quirked in fond amusement, “Yeah, we are.”

“It’ll be a long time before I fully process everything that you’ve told me, but I suppose I should be grateful. At the very least, you’ll have Bumblebee and Ratchet, long after we’re dead and gone.”

The soft regret in her tone caused him to glance at her in alarm. Although her tears had long since abated, her face was pale and drawn. When she noticed his stare, she turned a tremulous smile on him before reaching out to grasp his knee.

“Nothing you’ve said makes me think any differently of you, Sammy. I’m just worried—there’s a lot of uncertainty in your future.”

“I know, Ma.”

“Come here.” She said abruptly, raising her arms up towards him. Without protest, Sam shuffled closer to her, pressing against her chest as she wrapped her arms around him. They embraced each other for a long while, her hands smoothing up and down his back. By the time that his mother pulled away, grasping him by his shoulders, Sam felt wrung out and exhausted.

“I’m going back to the apartment so I can get some sleep and think about everything you’ve said. I think you should get some rest yourself, it’s late.”

“Yeah, sure.” He agreed quietly.

His mother smiled at him approvingly as she rose to her feet. Sam followed suit a moment later, and together they walked towards his door. She hugged him again, her thin arms squeezing him until his ribs protested. When she stepped away, she visibly hesitated before turning an apologetic smile on him.

“Sam… don’t say anything about this to your father. Let me speak to him first.”

Sam blinked at her, taken aback by the way that her words caused pain to needle deeply into his chest. This was the standard operating procedure in their household—he took bad news to his mother first, and his mother played interference with his father. Despite this, her words stung like a denial—like a rejection—and Sam had to struggle to keep the hurt that it caused from showing on his expression.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Ma.” He said instead, pushing his hands into his pockets. Her eyes roved across his face, soft and fathomless, before she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. A moment later, the door closed quietly behind her.

Sam stood there for an interminable time, staring at the front door as he tried to get his emotions under control. Eventually, he became aware of Bumblebee’s mental presence, hesitant and concerned, at the edge of his mind. He glanced towards him, tired brown eyes meeting sympathetic blue-gray.

“Do you want to be alone?” Bumblebee asked, quietly, stepping close.

“No.” Sam replied, hating how raw he sounded. In lieu of a response, Bumblebee’s mental presence pressed against him, a soothing wash of affection. Rather than reassuring him, however, it settled like an itch in his mind, an unwelcome reminder of his changed nature. No matter how much he might wish it, he was neither fully human nor Cybertronian. He was something distinct and separate from all of the people that he loved. The reminder was almost claustrophobic in its intensity.

“Sam.” Bumblebee murmured, grasping his elbow with the tips of his fingers, “It’s okay.”

Sam scoffed, but there was no heat in it.

“It doesn’t feel okay, Bee.” He replied, flatly.

“I know. Come here.” The holoform said, tugging lightly on his arm. He led Sam across the room, maneuvering him down onto the couch, before he sat beside him. Bee reached out, pulling the remote control off the coffee table, and handed it towards him, “Find something. Anything.”

Sam glanced at him, something like mild exasperation playing at the corners of his mouth, “I’m not in the mood to watch television.”

“So don’t watch it, but you still have to find something.”

Sam huffed quietly, but he pressed the power button all the same. As he began to flip through 200 channels of cable television, Bumblebee shifted against him, settling back against the arm of the couch. Once the holoform was comfortable, he tugged at Sam insistently. Sam glanced sidelong at him, the exasperation on his face softening into something closer to affection.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he settled down against Bumblebee all the same. With some shifting and adjustment, they found themselves lying side by side, Sam pressed against the back of the couch and Bumblebee with one leg braced against the floor. He continued flipping through channels as he moved to lay his head against Bumblebee’s chest. The holoform’s arm settled over him, his hand coming to rest against Sam’s bicep.

Sam paused for a minute on a re-run of Brooklyn-99, before he continued through the channels. As Sam flipped onto the block of sports networks, he became aware of the pattern that Bumblebee was lazily tracing into his arm. The holoform’s touch was feather-light, almost ticklish, causing pleasant goosebumps to spread over Sam’s skin. He angled his head up at the holoform, squinting at him in curiosity.

“What is that? You do it a lot.”

Bee glanced down at him, something like embarrassment coloring his mental presence.

“It’s a glyph.” He replied, vaguely.

“A glyph? Of what?”

“There’s no direct translation.”

Sam pushed up slightly onto his elbow, his curiosity deepening at the strangely enigmatic edge to the holoform’s answers.

“So give me a rough translation.”

Bumblebee’s embarrassment brightened, mingling with signifiers of mild exasperation and affection.

“I suppose it would roughly translate to ‘beloved’.” He replied, at last.

Sam blinked up at him, taken by surprise, “Beloved?”

“Yes.”

Sam settled back down against Bumblebee’s chest, warmed as much by the admission as he was by the uncharacteristic shyness of Bee’s tone. He flipped through another dozen channels before he nudged against his bonded’s mental presence, equal parts insistent and impatient.

“I didn’t say you had to stop.” 

Bumblebee chuckled softly, his forefinger moving to trace the invisible pattern into Sam’s flesh again. The touch was pleasant, causing Sam to shiver lightly. By the time that Sam had made his way into the pay-per-view channels, he was feeling warm and relaxed. The conversation with his mother receded to the back of his mind—the sting of her departure still painful, but manageable. By the time that he made it back to the Brooklyn-99 episode, Sam’s eyes had started to droop. He let the remote fall onto the floor, tucking his nose into Bumblebee’s chest as he shut his eyes.

“You should go to bed.” Bumblebee murmured, his voice openly affectionate.

Sam grunted a negative. He was warm and comfortable, he wasn’t about to go anywhere.

“It’s almost eleven.” Bee chided.

“You got somewhere to be?” Sam asked without opening his eyes.

“No, not at the moment. I am scheduled for re-charge at midnight.”

“Then I’ll go to bed at midnight.”

Bumblebee’s chest shook with a quiet laugh, “Alright then.”

Sam hummed approvingly, swinging a knee over Bumblebee’s legs as he burrowed closer against him. The holoform shifted to accommodate him, before he continued tracing glyphs into the flesh of Sam’s arm. Sam drifted comfortably to the sound of theme music and the feeling of Bumblebee’s hands on his body, the anguish of his mother’s departure a distant concern. 

* * *

Thundercracker strode towards the flight deck, his expression and his electromagnetic fields betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. He nodded at the mechanoids that he passed, grounders and airframes patrolling the ship in pairs and trios, but he paid them little mind. His attention was focused inwards, towards the connection with his trine. He could feel Starscream’s haughtiness, the same flippant eagerness that he always projected prior to flying. Skywarp also emanated anticipation, but his signature was far more mellow. His trinemate’s calm made Thundercracker clench his jaw until the plates protested in strain.

Less than a klik later, Thundercracker stepped through the large doors onto the open air hangar. He could see his trine at the other end of the flight deck, standing in their bipedal modes. Acid Storm and Dirge stood a short distance away, engaging them in conversation. Thundercracker could tell by the way that Starscream was gesturing expressively—and by Skywarp’s tolerant amusement—that it was a benign conversation. That realization agitated him further still.

As he approached the group of Seekers, Skywarp waved in welcome. Thundercracker nodded once, stopping in front of Starscream.

“Air Commander, we’ve been advised to depart for patrol as soon as possible.”

Starscream stopped mid-sentence, turning to pin Thundercracker with a disapproving scowl.

“Advised? By whom?”

Thundercracker carefully schooled his expression. Starscream was intensely territorial about his role as Air Commander, and he did not tolerant anyone superseding his commands.

“Soundwave has reason to believe that the Autobots may be mobilizing in the Atacama Desert.”

Starscream shoulders relaxed, something like malicious delight brightening his optics.

“Is Prime looking to escalate?”

“Perhaps. There is evidence of ground bridge activity in the region.”

Starscream gestured towards the open air with a servo, “Well then, let’s not keep our guests waiting.”

Thundercracker nodded tersely, initiating his transformation sequence without another word. A moment later, the three of them streaked out of the hangar, banking sharply to head west. As soon as they were clear of the _Nemesis_ , Thundercracker pinged Starscream.

_//Take right flank, I’m assuming point.//_

There was a brief thrum of _surprise-suspicion-condescension_ , but Starscream pulled up and barrel-rolled without complaint, allowing Thundercracker to assume his position. Immediately thereafter, Starscream fell into place just behind his right stabilizer. As soon as his sensors confirmed that they were flying in perfect Vic formation, Thundercracker poured all of his available reserves into his thrusters. His primary visual display erupted in a cascade of notifications as he passed Mach-2 and Mach-3, but he shunted them to his secondary processor. As they approached Mach-4, he felt Starscream’s amusement wash over their connection.

_//Trying to compensate for your abysmal performance yesterday?//_

Thundercracker did not reply to the jibe, although it rankled him more than Starscream’s usual insults. Once he reached Mach-4, he leveled out his telemetry and activated a continuously looping sub-routine to scan for air traffic within 40 miles in any direction. He had no desire for their patrol to be interrupted by uninvited guests.

As the craggy rocks of the Andes Mountains transitioned into the high, flat plain of the Altiplano, Thundercracker steeled himself with grim determination. He ran through his systems checks for a third time since taking off, and then he veered 20 degrees west-southwest.

 _//What are you doing?//_ Starscream demanded immediately, _//You’re going off-course.//_

 _//I am in point position, Starscream. It is on course if I say it is on course.//_ Thundercracker bit back immediately, letting cold disapproval leak into his fields. To his immense relief, Starscream did not reply beyond a terse, wordless acknowledgement. They flew in silence for several breems, as the scrubby tundra beneath them transitioned into the vast, empty expanse of sand known as the Atacama Desert. As soon as his visual display flashed a notification that they had reached the dead zone, Thundercracker spiraled into a dramatic nosedive, plummeting towards the Earth like a stone.

He could feel the surprise and confusion of his trinemates, but as any highly trained and disciplined Seeker unit, they followed suit less than an astrosecond later. Thundercracker’s wings flared widely as he pulled up just meters from the ground, his aft thrusters blowing up a cloud of dust and sand. He landed in his bipedal form a moment later, turning to watch as Starscream and Skywarp touched down.

“ _Are you glitched_?” Starscream shrieked, as soon as he transformed, “First yesterday and then this? If you weren’t my trinemate—“

“Be quiet, Starscream.” Thundercracker interrupted him.

Starscream’s optics widened in shock, before they narrowed into crimson slits, “How dare you?”

Thundercracker could feel Skywarp’s anxious concern, but he did not spare his trinemate a glance. Instead, he returned Starscream’s furious glare, allowing the rage and disgust that he had been harboring for the last solar cycle to bleed into his fields. 

“I know what Megatron is keeping from you, Air Commander.” Thundercracker replied coldly.

His words caused Starscream to pause, before he pinned Thundercracker with an unimpressed glower.

“That’s what this is all about? You’ve been making a fool of yourself and our trine because—“

“He shared charge with the boy.”

Starscream bit off his words, staring at Thundercracker in open derision.

“What?”

“After Blitzwing was injured, Megatron used the Creator bond to initiate an overload—“

“I heard you the first time.” Starscream hissed, his faceplates contorting with fury, “It is not like you to share baseless conjecture, Thundercracker.”

Thundercracker’s wings flared at the insult. To suggest that he would listen to petty gossip, that he would believe tawdry speculation without _evidence_ was almost beyond the pale, even for his trine leader.

“My information comes directly from Soundwave.” He spat, venom in his voice, “I do not bring this to you lightly.”

His words caused Starscream to still, his fields flaring with undisguised shock.

“Soundwave would never betray Lord Megatron’s confidence.”

“Lord Megatron did not confide in him, Soundwave was inside Sam’s head throughout his captivity.” Thundercracker replied, “Megatron inflicted his abuses while the boy was inside the Creator bond.”

Starscream stared at him with narrowed optics, his gaze darting over Thundercracker’s face. He returned his trine leader’s look directly, without attempting to disguise his fields or shield his mind. When Starscream’s expression tightened, as though in denial, Thundercracker felt his temper flare. He stepped forward, grabbing Starscream’s wing and giving him a sharp shake.

“Megatron initiated charge with a newspark, Screamer.” Thundercracker snapped, his anger getting the better of him, “A youth by Autobot laws and our own.” 

Starscream wrenched himself out of Thundercracker’s grip, his expression apoplectic.

“He is a human, you soft-sparked moron!”

Thundercracker could feel Skywarp’s surprise and disapproval, but once again, his attention was focused solely on his Air Commander.

“He is human.” Thundercracker agreed, coldly, “But he has a spark signature, the same as you or I. His neural network, his fields, his comm channel, they are all the same. Megatron used _your Creator protocols_ to abuse a sparkling, Starscream. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Starscream’s frame was so stiff that his wings practically vibrated from the tension. After a long, weighted moment, the Air Commander ground out harshly, “No. I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Nor have I, nor Soundwave, nor Prime, judging by his reaction.” Thundercracker replied.

Starscream was silent for a long moment, his fields undulating violently with flashes of disgust and rage and proprietary fury. Then, all at once, Starscream pulled his fields close to his frame and separated his mental presence from their bond with a heavy firewall. He drew himself up to his full height, looking first at Thundercracker and then at Skywarp.

“I will hear this from Soundwave myself.” He spat. Without another word, he transformed into his alt mode and streaked back towards the _Nemesis_ , without waiting for Thundercracker or Skywarp to follow.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a broken record, but thank-you all so much for your continued enthusiasm and support. I have the best readers on this entire site.

Sam turned the corner, hurrying towards the North Quad entrance. The long stretch of corridor in front of him was silent, except for the sound of his shoes ringing off the concrete floor. As he walked, the sense of urgency in his gut sharpened with every step. The large doors at the end of the hall stood in contrast with the ceiling and walls, stark red against pristine white—like blood spreading across fallen snow. The sight caused some of the tension in Sam’s body to relax, and he stepped towards them in relief.

As Sam made his way down the long, empty expanse of the bridge, he tried not to dwell on the fact that he was late. He hated being late. His father always said that if you weren’t fifteen minutes early, then you might as well kiss your reputation good-bye.

_“Sam…”_

Sam paused mid-step, his ears straining to pick up the faint noise. He glanced behind him, trying to locate the source of the whisper. The large, concrete corridor curved as it extended behind him, disappearing into the curtain of shadow in the distance. He frowned faintly, wondering whether he should turn around, when the sense of urgency in his gut sharpened again. Without hesitating, he turned on his heel and continued in the direction that he had been walking.

_“Sam…”_

Sam stopped once again, his frown deepening in consternation. He was sure that he had heard it that time. Although it was too faint to tell whether it was a male or a female voice, Sam had the strongest feeling that he recognized it. He glanced down at Ravage, who stood by his side.

“Did you hear that?”

The large cybercat angled her head towards him, her ruby optic shining vividly in the dim light of the bridge.

“I did not, I am not a Prime.”

Sam glanced behind him again, surprised to notice that the shadows gathered at the end of the bridge were closer now. They had swallowed the entrance to North Quad, leaking like a cold draft down the long corridor. Deep in his gut, the feeling of urgency sharpened to stark anxiety.

“We have to hurry.” Sam said, forcing his gaze away from the gathering darkness. Beside him, Ravage rumbled in acquiescence, and together they continued down the bridge. They walked more quickly now, driven as he was by intent and anxiety. He knew that he had to move—it was important that he did not dally.

_“Samuel…”_

Sam jerked around, his heart thundering in his throat. The voice was louder now, more insistent, as though it had originated from just behind him. To Sam’s mingled confusion and fear, he could see that the shadows extended further still, a solid wall of pitch-blackness that was encroaching ever nearer. Sam could feel a cold sweat break out on his neck as he stumbled backwards several steps.

“It is alright, Sam. All will be well.” Ravage said, reassuringly,

Sam stared down at her in confusion, but before he could reply, the large cybercat settled onto her belly, stretching out across the corridor. As he watched, the shadows stretched towards her, as inexorable as the incoming tide.

“Ravage, what are you doing? Get up.” He urged, backing away, “It’s important that we hurry.”

“You are exactly where you need to be.” Ravage replied, serenely, as the shadows crawled over her chassis.

“Please get up.” Sam begged, suddenly terrified, “I can’t do it alone.”

“Do not be afraid, Samuel Prime.” Ravage replied as the shadows enveloped her. Sam realized with a shock of fear that her voice had changed in pitch and tenor, until it resembled the disembodied voice that had whispered his name, “You are not alone.”

As the ruby glow from Ravage’s optic disappeared into the darkness, Sam turned on his heel and ran.

* * *

Sam jerked awake with a strangled cry, sitting up in wide-eyed fear. As memories of urgency and purpose faded away, he abruptly realized that it was perfectly dark and quiet. All-consuming panic crashed over him with the force of a tsunami, and he lurched forward instinctively, as though to escape the darkness. A moment later, Sam collided painfully with the floor in a tangle of limbs and blankets. All at once, bright light flooded the room.

“Are you alright?” Ratchet demanded, sharply.

Sam squinted open his watering eyes, taking in the sight of the holoform striding towards him. He glanced around in disorientation for a heartbeat, before he realized that he was on the floor of his living room. Embarrassment surged through him, hot and sharp, and he struggled into a sitting position.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sam muttered, rubbing his wrist with a wince. He must have struck it on the coffee table on his way to the floor.

Ratchet crouched down in front of him, extending his hand expectantly, “Give it here.”

Sam glanced at him in confusion, before realizing what the medic wanted. Sighing in resignation, he surrendered his wrist without complaint. The holoform turned his hand over, skilled fingers pressing into the flesh of the joint as he manipulated his wrist back and forth. Sam grimaced when Ratchet turned his hand just so, and the holoform glanced up at him sharply.

“Did that hurt?”

Sam leveled him with a flat look, “You know it did.”

Ratchet snorted softly.

“Nothing is sprained or broken, but you should take an anti-inflammatory. Do you have any ibuprofen?”

“I don’t know, Ratch. Maybe. It’d be in the bathroom.” He replied, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the couch. As he sat down, Sam yanked the blanket away from himself, tossing it onto the coffee table with a sour look. Ratchet rose to his full height, stepping around the couch and making his way into the bedroom. A moment later, Sam could hear him rooting around in the drawers of the bathroom vanity. He snorted softly, rubbing his wrist as he turned his attention inwards. Bumblebee’s presence was soft and muted, a faint glow at the edge of his mind, and he realized at once that the scout was in re-charge. He glanced at the DVR and saw that it was just after two o’clock in the morning.

Ratchet stepped into his field of vision, extending two powdery tablets and a glass of water towards him. Sam accepted the pills, popping them into his mouth and swallowing them with a sip of water. They left a bitter taste on his tongue.

“Thanks.” He said, placing the glass of water on the coffee table.

Ratchet regarded him quietly for a long moment, his eyebrows knit together in consideration.

“What happened?” He asked, at last.

Sam looked up at him in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“I believe the question is self-evident.” Ratchet replied wryly, “Did you have a nightmare? My sensors did not notify me that anything was amiss.”

He frowned faintly at the question, uncertain how to answer. He had a vague recollection of urgency and fear, but nothing that he could remember with any clarity. On the other hand, he certainly remembered the panic that had blindsided him after he had woken up. In his confusion, the darkness has reminded him too clearly of stasis, and he had reacted without thinking.

Realizing that the holoform was waiting for an answer, Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug, “I was disoriented. I’ll leave a light on next time.”

Ratchet considered his words for a moment, and then he pinned him with a meaningful look.

“You should go back to sleep.”

For reasons that Sam could not fully articulate, the medic’s words sent a shock of anxiety up his spine. Almost before Ratchet had finished speaking, Sam was shaking his head.

“No, not now. Maybe later.” He replied, “Where’s Bumblebee?”

“Bumblebee is recharging in hangar three.” Ratchet replied, folding his arms over his chest, “He’ll be there for another four hours yet.”

“Okay, thanks.” Sam said, pushing himself to his feet, “I’m going for a walk.”

Ratchet’s expression became openly disapproving, “If you aren’t going to sleep, then you should at least rest quietly.”

“Sorry, Ratch.” Sam replied as he ambled towards his bedroom, “Not going to happen.”

The medic snorted loudly, and Sam could feel a wash of vexation through their bond. Sam glanced at the holoform over his shoulder.

“If you mention a word of this to my mother, I’ll track sand all over your medical bay.” He warned mildly.

“Oh, far be it for me to try and look out for your best interests,” The holoform bit back, “when you are clearly determined to make your recovery as difficult as possible.”

Sam snorted softly as he retrieved a sweater from the closet. He had fallen asleep in jeans and a thin shirt, and he had learned from long experience that the Hive was cool at night. The sweater was light beige, a long-sleeved shawl pullover with a folded collar. Sam pulled it on over his head, making his way back into the living room. Ratchet was standing beside the couch, his weathered face set in a no-nonsense expression. The holoform was wearing his usual fatigues, shirtsleeves rolled up his arms, which were folded over his chest.

“Don’t be like that.” Sam replied, adjusting the collar of the sweater as he came to stop in front of him, “You know that I have trouble sleeping.”

“And you know that I can put you into a deep sleep with little effort.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the holoform, feeling a flash of defensiveness at his words and tone. Before he could snap something uncomplimentary, however, Ratchet _tapped_ him admonishingly across their bond.

“I am not about to violate your personal autonomy and betray your trust for the sake of one night’s sleep.” He replied, scathingly.

Sam had the good grace to wince in response.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He apologized softly, “Listen, Ratch, I’m going to walk over to West Quad. Maybe I can catch some sleep in Bee’s cab.”

“The far more likely outcome of that scenario is that neither of you gets any rest.”

Sam resisted the urge to throw his hands up in frustration. Instead, he crossed his arms and pinned the medic with a flat stare, “Can I go or not?”

After a long moment, Ratchet sighed in frustration and gestured vaguely towards the door.

“You do not need my permission to visit your bonded, Sam.” Ratchet replied, “That is your right and privilege.”

Taken aback by the medic’s unexpected assent, Sam could only murmur, “Thanks Ratch.”

The medic snorted dryly, “Don’t thank me yet. The violation of your personal autonomy for the sake of your health will become an increasingly attractive option the longer that you push your limits. Consider this my one and only warning.”

Before Sam could reply, the holoform shimmered and disappeared. He stared at the empty space where the medic had stood for a long moment, and then he bent down to pull on his shoes. A moment later, he stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him. After double-checked that the door was locked, Sam started walking. The Hive was expectedly quiet, given the late hour, and Sam made his way through North Quad and onto the bridge before he encountered another person. He nodded at the uniformed soldiers as they passed one another, returning their polite greeting almost as an afterthought. He walked purposefully but unhurriedly. The quiet and solitude of the bridge was almost comfortingly familiar, a thing he had experienced many times during those first restless months after his arrival at the base.

It was the better part of a half an hour before Sam stepped through the heavy blast doors into West Quad. This section of the Hive was designed primarily for Transformer occupation, and everything within the quad was appropriately sized. Rooms that were intended for co-habitation by humans and Transformers were located nearest to the bridge, including the command center, the maintenance hangars, and the training range, while rooms designed for Transformer occupation were located further away. These included the berthing hangars, Prime’s office, energon storage, and the lounge. The exception to this rule was Ratchet’s medical bay, which was located a short distance from the West Quad doors.

Although Sam was generally familiar with the layout of this part of the Hive, he had not spent a great deal of time in the deeper recesses of the quadrant. It felt invasive somehow, as though he were an interloper or a voyeur. Admittedly, he had spent more than his fair share of time in Ratchet’s medical bay, and he had attended senior staff briefings at the command center, but otherwise he tended to avoid the quad.

As a result, Sam felt more than a little out of place as he made his way towards the berthing hangars. He walked more quickly than he had on the bridge, his hands pushed into his pockets and tension in his shoulders. His discomfort was momentarily alleviated when he passed by the large doors of the medical bay. He glanced inside, feeling a fond pang at sight of the familiar surroundings. The hangar was bright and airy and neat as a pin. He craned his head and noticed Ratchet’s bipedal mode standing at a workbench on the other side of the large room. The medic’s back was to him as he bent diligently over his work.

Sam’s lips quirked in a faint smile, and he nudged Ratchet across their bond. Sam felt a swell of acknowledgement that was terse-bordering-on-pissy, and he snorted a quiet laugh.

“Hello to you too.” He murmured, well aware that Ratchet could hear him.

When Ratchet did not turn around to look at him, Sam shrugged and continued walking. He had become accustomed to the medic’s temper. He was confident that Ratchet would get over it, eventually.

As Sam made his way deeper into West Quad, he became aware of a growing din of animated talking and clanging metal. He cocked his head, listening as the sounds grew louder as he approached. As he turned the corner onto another long corridor, he noticed that the massive double doors to the training range were wide open. Now that he was closer, he could make out individual voices. There was Ironhide’s booming tenor followed immediately by a sarcastic drawl that Sam recognized as Sunstreaker. Amidst their conversation were other voices, quieter and higher in pitch, only just audible above the thuds and clangs coming from the room.

Although the training range was not in the direction of the berthing hangar, Sam felt his curiosity get the better of him. Without weighing the pros and cons of his decision, Sam turned down the corridor and made his way towards the large room. As he approached, he swallowed down a sudden, unwelcome surge of anxiety, and then he stepped into the open entryway. The training range was by far the largest room of the Hive, many times larger than the receiving room. It contained a complicated series of ramps, mezzanines, ditches, and alcoves to simulate varied topography. The entire room was solid gray concrete, with colorful markers along the walls and floors. Sam could not even begin to speculate as to their meaning, but they varied from green closest to the entrance to yellow, orange, and red furthest away. The most attention-catching aspect of the room was easily the scorch marks and bullet indentations that covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the hangar.

Sam was surprised to see that a number of transformers and NEST personnel had assembled in the room. By the looks of it, they had just finished a training drill. There was Ironhide and Sunstreaker, talking to one another nearby, and Kup, Hot Rod, and Smokescreen were further away. To Sam’s surprise, he also noticed members of Alpha Team walking back and forth across the area immediately in front of the hangar doors. There was Killian Anderson, Robin Williams, and Bobby Epps a short distance away, each hauling heavy duffle bags and M4s. Sam also saw Will standing next to Ironhide, his back towards him. The sight of the Major made Sam’s stomach twist with uncertainty, and he abruptly regretted his decision to indulge his curiosity.

Before he could slip away, however, Roddy glanced in his direction. The cavalier’s expression brightened, and he raised a servo to wave good-naturedly at him.

“Hi Sam!” He boomed, and every head in the hangar turned to look in his direction.

Sam resisted the urge to wince, forcing himself to return the wave. He barely had a moment to lament the heat suffusing his face, when Sunstreaker strode towards him. The brilliant yellow warrior crouched in front of him, his blue optics shining brightly.

“Sam. You have been missed.” Sunstreaker murmured lowly. The emotion in his voice caused something to unclench inside of Sam’s chest, and he stepped forward to press his hand against the warrior’s chassis. The metal was warm beneath his palm.

“You too, Sunny.” Sam replied, softly, “How’ve you been? How’s Sideswipe?”

Sunstreaker’s optics were fathomless in their intensity. After a moment, he extended a servo towards him. His actions were exaggeratedly slow, as though he were giving Sam the opportunity to protest or pull away. When he did neither, Sunny drew the tip of one digit down Sam’s arm. The touch was gentle, well within the bounds of polite convention, but Sam could easily interpret the subtext behind the gesture.

Ironhide stepped up behind the yellow warrior, giving him a shove as he rumbled at him in Cybertronian. Sunstreaker glanced over his shoulder in obvious irritation, hissing something that sounded decidedly unflattering, but he promptly dropped his servo and stood up all the same.

“Hey Ironhide.” Sam greeted, a hesitant smile warming his face, “I didn’t have a chance to say hello the other day at the hangar.”

“Hello Sam.” The weapon’s specialist replied, folding his arms over his chassis, “What are you doing over here?”

Sam shrugged, feeling the back of his neck heat up, “Couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d go see Bee.”

“Bumblebee has been in ‘charge since midnight.” Ironhide replied.

“I know,” He replied, “but I wanted to see him anyway.”

Ironhide nodded, accepting his explanation, as paltry as it was. Sam glanced around the large silver warrior, taking in the sight of Will standing next to Killian. The redheaded Marine grinned at him brightly, but Will’s back was still turned towards him. All at once, Sam realized that the Major had no interest in speaking with him. The knowledge caused his mouth to turn down in a deep frown.

“How’re your folks?” Ironhide rumbled, shifting his weight from one pede to the other.

Sam’s eyes never left Will as he replied, distractedly, “They’re good. It was nice of Optimus to bridge them over on such short notice.”

All at once, there was a sharp intake of air from a short distance away. Sam’s attention was pulled towards Smokescreen, who stood with an openly disapproving expression on his face. The red, blue and silver mechanoid turned to whistle something insistently at Ironhide. Before the weapon’s specialist could reply, however, Sunstreaker bristled and snapped something rude-sounding in his direction. The tactician folded his arms over his chassis, his expression stern and serious, as he replied with a long, undulating series of whistles and chirps.

Sam looked from Smokescreen, to Sunstreaker, and back again.

“What?” He asked, uncertainly.

“It’s nothing, Sam.” Ironhide replied immediately.

At the same time, Smokescreen said, with obvious disapproval in his tone, “His title is Prime.”

“What?” Sam asked for a second time, looking up at the tactician in confusion.

Ironhide turned to look at Smokescreen, something like censure in his narrowed optics. Smokescreen did not return his gaze, instead pinning Sam with a stern stare.

“It is disrespectful and inappropriate to refer to him by his designation. You should refer to him as Prime or Optimus Prime, as the situation permits.”

The tactician’s tone was reprimanding and, to Sam’s ears, condescending. He felt himself blush crimson all the way to the tips of his ears, equal parts humiliated, mortified, and angry. He was distantly aware of Ratchet’s sudden attention through their bond, but he was too focused on the three mechanoids in front of him to care. Something about the way that Smokescreen was looking at him made Sam feel small and inferior. 

“He’s never said—“ Sam stammered, but both Sunstreaker and Smokescreen interrupted him.

“You don’t answer to Smokescreen, Sam—“

“Of course he would not presume to correct you, he is a Prime.”

“What’s this now?” Will asked coolly, coming to stand beside Ironhide. Sam turned to look at him, almost worshipfully grateful for the interruption. The Major looked from Sam’s tomato-red face, to Smokescreen, his eyes narrowing in irritation.

“You were told to let it go, Smokescreen.”

Sam felt his mortification deepen as he realized that Smokescreen’s complaint had obviously been a topic of conversation among the mechanoids. Desperately, he cast his mind back, trying to remember whether Bumblebee and Ratchet referred to Optimus by his title or his name. The harder he thought, the worse his embarrassment became. It was true that Bumblebee occasionally referred to the Autobot leader by his name, but Sam could not remember him doing so unless the two of them were alone. Ratchet did so occasionally as well, but Sam knew that he was Optimus’ oldest friend.

Sam’s train of thought was interrupted as Smokescreen whistled sharply, an indignant reply to Will’s rebuke. Will rolled his eyes, “You know I don’t speak Cybertronian. If you got something to say, you say it to my face.”

Smokescreen stiffened, looking as though he was about to do just that, when Ironhide rumbled a low growl. The sound made the hairs on the back of Sam’s arms stand up. Smokescreen glanced in Ironhide’s direction, visibly taken aback, before he erupted in a series of short, high-pitched whistle-chirps that clearly conveyed his outrage. Sam took an instinctive step backwards, his heart suddenly hammering in his throat. He had no desire to be the cause of—or to get in the middle of—an altercation between the two warframes. Ironhide watched the smaller mechanoid impassively, his expression no longer polite.

When Smokescreen paused in his tirade, as though to in-vent, Ironhide rumbled with cold finality, “Enough.”

Smokescreen stiffened, but he did not reply. Evidentially, the tactician had understood that the single word had been a command. Smokescreen crossed one arm over his chassis, bowing exaggeratedly at the waist, before he turned on his pede and walked stiffly away. It was only after the tactician had passed Kup and Hot Rod, who were watching the altercation from a short distance away, that Sam released a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Does anyone care to explain what the hell that was all about?” Sam asked, his face still flushed.

“Smokescreen is devout.” Ironhide rumbled, as though that explained everything.

“Sorry, big guy, that doesn’t help.”

Ironhide glanced in his direction, his expression warming minutely.

“He follows the old religion. They were very puritanical about the holiness of Primes.”

Sam huffed a nervous laugh, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

“How devout are we talking here? Goes-to-church-on-Sundays devout, or murders-me-as-a-grand-gesture devout?”

Ironhide’s countenance grew dark and foreboding, but Kup replied before the weapon’s specialist could speak.

“Smokescreen does not pose a threat to you, Sam.” The Elite Guard reassured him, “He has a good spark, he just rigidly conforms to the old ways.”

Sam exhaled slowly, not assuaged in the least by the old mechanoid’s words. Suddenly uncomfortable, for reasons other than the possibility he had been disrespecting their religion for four years, he glanced over his shoulder towards the door.

“Well, thanks for clearing that up. I’ll leave you guys to… whatever it is that you were doing in here.” He replied. In that moment, Sam wanted nothing more than to climb into the quiet of Bumblebee’s cab. If he trusted anyone to provide context to what had just happened, it was his guardian. As Sam turned to go, he saw Ironhide rumble something quietly to Will. The Major glanced up at him, his expression a complicated mixture of emotion—anger, denial, frustration—before he set his jaw and looked in Sam’s direction.

“I’ll walk with you.” He said, gruffly, stepping around ‘Hide in order to walk towards the hangar doors. Sam stared at him in surprise for the space of a heartbeat, before he murmured an affirmative and followed him.

Together they made their way out of the training range and down the long corridor towards the junction that led to the hangars. They walked in silence—Sam withdrawn and uncomfortable, Will tense and reticent. It wasn’t until the hangar came into view a short while later that Sam glanced sidelong at him.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

Will’s expression became closed off and inscrutable as he grunted a wordless reply. Painfully aware of the unresolved tension between them, Sam switched tactics and tried again.

“The 49’ers are playing the Chiefs on Sunday.”

There was the slightest hitch in Will’s step, before he replied, “I’m a Vikings fan.”

Sam turned to look at him, taken aback by the cool dismissal in his voice. All at once, he felt a flare of sharp irritation. He knew that Will was dealing with whatever emotional fallout the attack had caused, but he was dealing with the same.

“Good talk.” Sam snapped, “Glad we had the chance to catch up.”

Will glanced at him, lips turning down on his sun-tanned face. Abruptly, he stopped walking and turned to look at Sam directly.

“Listen, Sam. I’m sorry to disappoint, but there’s no heart-warming reunion to be had here.” Will said, his voice firm but not unkind, “I can’t just forget what happened—or my role in it.”

Sam’s face clouded at the Major’s tone, hot anger and the sting of rejection combining to darken his expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t realize how hard all of this has been for you.” Sam replied, injecting every bit of sarcasm into his voice that he could manage, “Please, take your time.”

Will’s eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed in anger.

“You don’t have the market cornered on grief, Sam.” He growled, stepping closer, “A lot of people struggled while you were gone.”

All at once, Sam was blindsided by a wave of resentment. He had thought that, once he returned, everything would be just the same as it had been before the attack. Was normalcy really too much to ask? After everything that he had gone through?

Something on his face must have been telling, for Will’s expression became openly conflicted.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

The Major’s apology hardened something inside of him. Sam narrowed his eyes and stepped away.

“I’m good from here, thanks.” He replied, coldly. As he strode towards the hangar, Sam called over his shoulder, “If you need someone to help sort through all of your bullshit, I can recommend a good therapist.”

Sam did not wait for Will’s reply before he stalked into the Autobot hangar. The room was large and dark, empty except for a half a dozen berths arranged in even intervals along the far wall. Only one of the berths was occupied—a yellow and blue mechanoid whose name Sam could not remember—while the rest of the hangar’s occupants were arranged around the room in their alt modes. Bumblebee and Cliffjumper were beside each other on the far side of the room, while Arcee, Chromia and Elita-1 were clustered together nearer the door.

Sam made his way quietly across the large room, trying to ignore the discomfort he felt at intruding into their private space. The sight of the yellow Camaro caused a lump to lodge in his throat, as the grief and mortification and anger that he had struggled with all evening coalesced in an instant. Sam brushed the tips of his fingers over the yellow bonnet, blinking rapidly and trying to get himself under control.

“Bee.” He murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper of air, “Can I sit with you?’

Almost before the words had left his mouth, the driver’s side door opened. Sam felt a swell of relief and gratitude, and without another word, he slipped into the waiting cab. The door clicked shut behind him, and Sam leaned back against the seat. He could feel the calmness of Bumblebee’s regard through their bond. After a long, tense silence, Sam reached out to grasp the steering wheel with both hands. The feeling of the smooth leather beneath his palms was grounding.

“How much of that did you hear?” Sam asked, voice rough.

“I did not register your presence until you entered the hangar.” Bumblebee said, something like an apology in his voice, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m sure you’ll get the play-by-play from someone eventually.” Sam replied bitterly.

There was a protracted silence and then Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened across their bond. The winter-white glow pressed close, enveloping his mind in warmth. Sam’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, as his breath sighed out of him.

“You are upset.” Bumblebee murmured, “What happened?”

Sam opened his eyes, staring at the dashboard for a long time. He wanted to cry, but his eyes were hot and dry. He wanted to hit something, but he felt leaden with exhaustion. More than anything, he wanted to turn back time and listen to Ratchet’s advice to go back to bed. All the while that Sam turned his thoughts over in his mind, Bumblebee waited patiently and without complaint.

“What happened?” Sam replied, eventually, “Let’s see. Well, I found out that I have been blaspheming your religion for four years. That was properly mortifying. Oh, and Will’s being a huge asshole.”

Bumblebee’s presence shifted in his mind, and Sam could feel a complicated swell of emotion before the sensation abruptly vanished. Sam glanced at the dashboard in surprise, but before he could voice his confusion, Bee was speaking.

“Don’t pay any attention to Smokescreen. He is uncompromising about his beliefs, and he had no right to condescend to you as he did.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord at the scout’s clipped tone. He pinned the dashboard with a wry look.

“That was fast. Who told you?”

“Hot Rod.”

“Ah.” Sam replied, letting his head fall back against the seat, “I see.”

“Sam, Optimus’ title is a sign of respect for his position as our Supreme Commander and our holy leader.” Bumblebee explained, “You are neither a soldier under his command nor a supplicant in our religion.”

“That doesn’t matter, Bumblebee. Someone should have told me that I’ve been—“ Sam went rigid, horror and shame burning through him in an instant, “Oh my god, I called your Pope a son of a bitch.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence brightened with surprise and then warmed in good humor.

“Did he deserve it?”

“Bee!” Sam managed, aghast, “That’s not funny.”

“Sam, Optimus knows that your familiarity is a reflection of your trust and affection, not an indication of disrespect.” Bumblebee said, gently, “And we both know that he would not hesitate to correct any behavior that he views unfavorably.”

Bumblebee’s wry tone caused Sam’s lips to turn up in grudging amusement. The memory of Optimus’ disapproval in the command center still caused him to cringe in embarrassment.

“He does have god-tier guilt power.” Sam replied, after a moment.

Bumblebee whistled at him amusedly, “He does.”

Sam felt some of the tension in his body slowly relax as he mulled over Bumblebee’s words. He settled back against his seat, folding his arms over his chest.

“Well, I still think Smokescreen is an asshole.”

“I did warn you.” Bumblebee replied in good-natured agreement, and then his mental presence became hesitant, uncertain, “Sam, about Will…”

Sam sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I think maybe I was the asshole in that situation.” Sam admitted, “He was being a jerk, but I was worse.”

Bumblebee brushed against his mind, affectionate and reassuring, “Then tell him that, the next time that you see him.”

“I’m not sure that he has any interest in talking to me again.”

“Will had a difficult time after the attack.” Bee said, “He blamed himself for what happened to you. It did not help that others shared the sentiment.”

Sam opened his eyes, lifting his head from the backrest to stare at the dashboard.

“What?” He asked sharply, “Who?”

Sam felt the faint twinge of guilt and remorse through their bond, and he knew the answer to his question without being told.

“Bumblebee.” Sam reproached, frowning, “You know that’s not true.”

“I know it now.” Bumblebee admitted, clearly uncomfortable, “But in the aftermath of the attack, I needed someone to blame. Will and Jack were easy targets.”

“Who else blamed them?” Sam demanded, and he felt the mental equivalent of a shrug.

“Ratchet, of course, but Sunstreaker, Hot Rod, and Cliff were not much better. Prime put an end to it immediately, but the damage had already been done.”

“Did you ever apologize?”

There was a long, protracted silence before his bonded replied.

“Yes, I have apologized to Will.”

“And Jack?”

Bumblebee sighed, “No, I have not spoken to Jack in a long time.”

“Bumblebee.” Sam said, shocked at the honesty in his bonded’s tone, “I can’t believe that. I ordered Jack to leave—Megatron would have killed him.”

“I’ve seen the memory files. I know what happened.”

“Then you know it wasn’t his fault.” Sam said, sitting up in the seat.

“Will ordered you to flee to save your life. Wheeljack fled in order to save his.” Bumblebee replied, and his voice was cold, “He abandoned our ward, a sparkling, and _my_ _bonded_ to keep himself from being off-lined.”

“Stop that.” Sam said, disapprovingly, “He left because I ordered him to leave. He would have stayed if I hadn’t played the Prime card.”

“Sam, don’t ask me to forgive him because I can’t.” Bumblebee said, simply, “I won’t.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Bumblebee.” Sam said, his surprised disbelief slowly morphing into genuine anger, “I made him leave, I _wanted_ him to leave. I already have thirty-one deaths on my conscience—I couldn’t handle it if I had Jack’s blood on my hands too.”

Before Bumblebee could reply, an ear-splitting alarm cut through the silence of the berthing hangar. Sam’s heart slammed into his tonsils as he recognized the strident klaxon of the proximity alarm. All at once, the lights on Bumblebee’s dash lit up and his door flew open. Sam scrambled out of his cabin as quickly as he was able, raising his hands to press against his ears as Bumblebee rapidly transformed. Cliffjumper’s headlights flared brightly, and a moment later, he accelerated out of the hangar. Arcee, Chromia, and Elita-1 quickly followed suit.

“What’s happening?” Sam demanded, his entire body trembling with adrenaline.

Bumblebee looked down at him as his battlemask engaged—the scout’s eyes were impossibly bright in the dim light of the hangar, shining with naked hostility.

“It’s Starscream. He’s breached the perimeter of our energon detection grid, and he’s coming in hot.”

Sam was unable to suppress the shudder that ran through him at the note of grim finality in his bonded's voice.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Honestly, I don't deserve you guys. Your enthusiasm and support mean more to me than I could possibly explain. As promised, this will be a shorter transition chapter. The next chapter will be longer.
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : This chapter is 50% guardian protocols and 50% unrepentant Seeker bitchiness. Enjoy!

The proximity alarm echoed loudly in the expansive hangar, a reverberation that Sam could almost feel in his bones. A flash of movement in the corridor caught his attention, and he turned in time to see a red Aston Martin, a red and orange Lamborghini, and a red Ferrari streak past the open entryway. Sam glanced back at Bumblebee, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Starscream?” He asked in surprise, “Is he alone?”

Bumblebee rumbled, low in his chassis, “At present.”

Sam’s frown deepened. He could not imagine a reason for the Seeker to come to Diego Garcia, alone, so shortly after the failed parlay. If Starscream was intending to attack, he would have brought reinforcements, and if he was looking to negotiate, he would have transmitted his intentions prior to his arrival. Before Sam could voice his confusion, his cell phone began buzzing insistently in his pocket. The sensation startled him, interrupting his train of thought. Sam pulled out his phone, glancing down at the display—and then his breath froze in his lungs.

 _Judith Witwicky_.

Sam’s world narrowed down to the 5.5 inch display and then, all at once, he felt very calm. The klaxon wail of the proximity alarm faded away as he accepted the call, steady hands bringing the phone up to his ear.

“Ma?”

_“Sammy, what’s going on?”_

“It’s a Decepticon sighting, nothing to worry about.” He reassured her, his voice composed and confident, “I’m coming to get you. Can you get to the bridge entrance?”

Sam glanced up at Bumblebee, who nodded once in understanding, and then he transformed into his alt mode. As soon as his tires hit concrete, his driver’s side door swung open. Sam wasted no time, climbing into the cab as he instructed his mother to get dressed and to make her way out of North Quad. As he disconnected the call, Bumblebee drove out of the hangar, accelerating as he turned down the corridor towards the bridge.

_//Bumblebee and Sam, en route to North Quad.//_

_//You are supposed to be headed to the ground bridge.//_ Prowl replied immediately. His voice was calm and serious.

“I’m not going anywhere until I get my parents.” Sam replied, just as seriously.

_//Red Alert and Inferno are in the process of evacuating North Quad. They will bring your parents to the ground bridge.//_

Bumblebee did not alter his speed or direction, and Sam pressed an appreciative hand against the Autobot insignia emblazoned on the steering wheel.

“Tell them not to worry about it. We’re on our way.”

There was a protracted pause—a weighted silence, even by human standards—and then Prowl’s voice washed over the cabin.

_//Acknowledged.//_

Bumblebee’s engine revved loudly, and Sam watched as the speedometer needle inched higher. 20 miles per hour. 30. 35. 40. The Transformer-sized rooms of West Quad flashed past them as they approached the bridge entrance. As they flew past the medical bay, a familiar Search and Rescue vehicle pulled into the corridor behind them. Sam twisted in his seat, grasping the headrest with both hands as he stared at Ratchet’s alt mode through the back window. The medic flashed his high beams once, and Sam felt a swell of appreciation that he did not attempt to hide.

He turned around, settling back into the driver’s seat as Bumblebee exited West Quad. The bridge was a bustle of activity in comparison to the quiet of the Autobot’s section of the Hive. People streamed through the cavernous tunnel in both directions—soldiers hurrying south, while administrative personnel and civilian support staff walked north. Despite the press of bodies and the blare of the proximity alarm, Sam quickly realized that people were calm and orderly. The bridge was divided into two lanes: one for foot traffic, the other for vehicle traffic. As they accelerated towards north, Ratchet activated his sirens. The strobing red and white lights accompanied them through the bridge, causing both vehicle and pedestrian traffic to give them a wide berth.

As they approached the large, red doors of North Quad, Sam noticed two unfamiliar Autobots standing in their bipedal modes. Both were plated in red, white and black, but one had an impressive shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, while the other’s chest plates were made up of the front end of a fire truck. In addition to the two Autobots, a handful of NEST soldiers stood in a cluster around the North Quad entrance. They were dressed in full combat gear with M4s slung over their chests. Together, the Autobots and the NEST personnel were clearly directing traffic as people streamed onto the bridge.

Sam sat up straighter as Bumblebee slowed to a stop, his eyes darting over the harried, disoriented-looking people in varying states of dress. He could not see his parents anywhere in the crowd and the realization sent a stab of anxiety through him.

 _//I have them.//_ Ratchet replied promptly, _//We are almost to the bridge.//_

The medic’s words caused a wave of relief that left Sam feeling weak-kneed in response. He pressed close to Ratchet’s signature, a wordless gesture of appreciation, as Bumblebee opened the driver’s side door. Sam quickly climbed out of the cab, making his way through the dozens of people milling in the corridor and striding towards the quad entrance. As he approached, one of the soldiers standing sentry near the large, red doors held up a restraining hand.

“North Quad is off limits during the evacuation. Please make your way to East Quad as quickly as possible.”

Sam stared at the soldier incredulously for the space of a heartbeat, and then he narrowed his eyes.

“Get out of my way.” He replied. He was distantly surprised that his voice was perfectly level.

The soldier turned to look at him, his expression darkening in disapproval, but before he could speak, Sam heard his mother call out over the din of the corridor.

_“Sammy!”_

Sam’s head snapped up, following the sound of his mother’s voice. After only a moment or two, he caught sight of her in the throng of people. She was walking with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face unusually pale. His father walked beside her, his thinning hair standing in complete disorder. Ratchet’s holoform was at his mother’s side, an imminently calm expression on his face, while Dave Carter walked beside his father. The agent was dressed for bed, wearing loose fitting sleep pants and a long sleeved Packer’s shirt. To Sam’s amusement, the agent was also wearing thin-framed glasses—he hadn’t even realized that Dave wore contact lenses.

As the group passed through the large red doors onto the bridge, Sam stepped around the soldier in front of him to embrace his mother. He smiled at her, his expression all levity and good humor.

“And you thought fire drills were annoying.” He said, cheerfully.

His mother stared back at him, her expression hard and searching. Before he could speak, however, one of the red, white, and black mechanoids stepped towards them, a serious expression on his faceplates.

“Please, Dave, Sam, Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, I must ask that you proceed in an orderly fashion to East Quad.”

 _//Red Alert.//_ Bumblebee informed him helpfully.

“Thank-you, Red Alert.” Sam replied, guiding his mother away from the bridge entrance, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You as well,” Red Alert replied, briskly, “but further introductions will have to wait, I am afraid. We have approximately seven hundred people to evacuate and precious little time to do it.”

Sam nodded in understanding, guiding his mother towards Bumblebee’s waiting alt mode. As they approached, Bumblebee opened both of his doors and inclined his seats forward. Sam’s mother and father climbed into the back of the cab and, as soon as Bumblebee re-adjusted his seats, Sam and Carter slipped into the front. As soon as they were settled into their seats, Bumblebee’s doors snapped closed, and he reversed in a three-point turn and accelerated towards East Quad. Ratchet fell into pace behind them moments later.

“Oh thank goodness, it’s quieter in here.” His mother breathed, “That alarm is loud enough to split your skull in two.”

“Yeah, it’s loud.” Sam agreed, “They’ll shut it off as soon as the activation is over.”

“How long will that take?” His father asked, voice tight.

Carter turned in his seat, opening his mouth to reply, when Sam cut him off.

“Not long. As soon as the Decepticon sighting has been checked out.”

His father’s gaze flicked towards him, his dark brown eyes so flinty that they looked almost black.

“So, what now?” He asked, gruffly, “We go twiddle our thumbs in a bomb shelter or something?”

“We are heading to East Quad, back to the ground bridge hangar.” Dave replied, matter-of-factly, “In the unlikely scenario that the Decepticon sighting requires the Autobots to engage in combat, all civilians will be transported to Nellis Air Force Base _via_ the ground bridge.”

“In the ‘unlikely’ scenario, huh?” His father replied, and Sam could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t buying what Carter was selling, “Just how unlikely are we talking about here?”

Dave turned in his seat to pin Sam’s father with a level look.

“With any luck? Unlikely enough.”

Before his father could reply, Bumblebee slowed as he approached the large double doors of the ground bridge hangar. Four soldiers in full combat gear and holding heavy-looking assault rifles stood in pairs on either side of the wide entrance. They watched the stream of civilian support staff with sharp eyes and no-nonsense expressions on their faces. As Bumblebee neared, they snapped off crisp-looking salutes, before one soldier stepped forward. The middle-aged man extended one arm towards the hangar, waving his other hand in a ‘move forward’ gesture. Bumblebee obliged him, and shortly thereafter, he came to a stop within the hangar and opened his doors.

Sam and Carter climbed out of the cab, before turning to help his parents awkwardly clamber over the seats. As soon as his passengers were clear, Bumblebee rolled back several feet and then transformed. Sam turned, taking in the sights around them. The ground bridge hangar was bustling with activity. There had to be hundreds of people milling about and talking quietly amongst themselves. The result was a loud din of commotion that was audible even over the shrill wail of the proximity alarm. The ground bridge was located in the center of the space, and it was afforded a wide berth by all of the people surrounding it. That may have had something to do with the uniformed soldiers standing sentry around the archway with ‘take no bullshit’ expressions on their faces.

Ultra Magnus stood in his bipedal mode, surveying the hangar with a sharp, assessing optics. At his side stood First Aid, also in his bipedal mode. The medic’s demeanor was alert and serious, but far less imposing than Ultra Magnus’ stern countenance. Sam glanced over his shoulder in time to see Ratchet finish his transformation, and then the CMO made his way across the hangar. People scattered out of his way as he walked, like Moses parting the Red Sea. He eventually took up position beside Ultra Magnus, his arms folded over his chassis as the two officers conversed in low tones.

As Sam stared at the three mechanoids, Bumblebee crouched down beside him. The yellow scout bracketed Sam’s body between his knee struts, his optics impossibly bright in his otherwise inscrutable face. Sam angled his head so that he could look up at him. He could feel Bumblebee’s restlessness through their bond, a sort of tense and wary anticipation overlaid with fierce protectiveness. Sam smiled faintly, reaching out a hand to grasp the scout’s cheek plate.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Sam murmured, giving the cheek plate an affectionate tug, “Not even Starscream is stupid enough to attack the base by himself.”

“Starscream?” His mother asked, causing Sam to startle in surprise, “Which one is that?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see that both his parents and Carter had stepped close while he had been woolgathering, close enough to have overheard his words to Bumblebee despite the noise of the hangar. Behind his parents, Dave winced apologetically.

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, Ma.” Sam replied dryly.

“Answer the question, Sam.” His father commanded, sharply.

Sam stared at him for a long moment. His father’s posture was tense, his face flushed, and Sam knew that his efforts at levity had been wholly unsuccessful. Unable to see any way around it, Sam shrugged helplessly and obeyed him.

“Starscream is one of the Decepticon jets. They are fast and agile, but they have minimal defenses.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“All Decepticons are dangerous, Mr. Witwicky.” Dave replied matter-of-factly, “But one Seeker does not pose a significant threat to the base.”

Sam’s father turned to look at the agent, suspicion written all over his face.

“Really? If he is not a threat, then why is all of this necessary?” His father demanded, gesturing around them.

“Well, that's because Starscream is an asshole.” Dave replied, dryly, “Sir.”

Dave’s words startled a bark of genuine laughter from Sam, and he grinned at the agent appreciatively.

“He’s totally an asshole.” Sam agreed.

All of a sudden, Bumblebee tensed from helm to pede. The yellow scout’s plating flared, as though in a threat display, but his battlemask did not engage. Sam glanced up at him in confusion, only to see that Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, and First Aid were talking animatedly to each other, their faceplates arranged in nearly identical expressions of angry disbelief.

“What is it?” Sam demanded, anxiously.

“It’s Starscream.” Bumblebee replied at once, his tone openly irritated.

“What about him?”

Bumblebee glanced down at him, raising one shoulder in a shrug, “He says that he’s waiting.”

* * *

Thundercracker pulled up as he neared the ground, his thrusters blowing up clouds of sand and debris before he initiated his transformation sequence. A moment later, he landed in his bipedal mode at the edge of the southernmost airfield, a short distance away from his trinemates. Starscream paced along the edge of the semi-transparent energy barrier that encompassed the Autobot base, his wings flaring with impatience. As Thundercracker watched, his Air Commander extended the clawed tip of one digit to flick at the obstruction. A burst of electromagnetic energy rippled along the barrier in every direction, as though a stone had been dropped in a pond.

Skywarp turned to regard Thundercracker as he approached.

“You made it.” He replied, dryly, “I wondered whether you had gotten lost.”

Thundercracker narrowed his optics at the teleporter, scoffing audibly.

“I have neither Starscream’s impulsiveness nor your warp capabilities. I had to make do with common sense and a cobbled-together flight plan.”

Skywarp shrugged dismissively, folding his arms over his chassis. Thundercracker turned his attention back towards his Air Commander, who continued to pace back and forth in front of the energy barrier. After several breems of tense silence, Thundercracker glanced back towards Skywarp.

“Any word yet?” He asked, lowly.

“No, but Screamer didn’t ping them until he had already arrived.”

Thundercracker scoffed again, this time in open disapproval.

“Of course he didn’t.”

Before Skywarp could reply, Thundercracker’s visual display erupted in a cascade of proximity warnings. He shunted aside his battle protocols to his secondary processor and ran through his systems checks as a force of habit. In the distance, he could make out numerous approaching vehicles, their headlights cutting a swath through the darkness. As the distant sound of engines grew louder, Thundercracker and Skywarp exchanged a look of grim anticipation.

“It’s about time.” Starscream seethed, his wings drawing up in irritation, “Did they expect an engraved invitation?”

Thundercracker did not reply to his trine leader; instead, his optics focused on the approaching vehicles. As they neared the section of the airfield illuminated by floodlights, the identity of the ground frames became readily apparent. Optimus Prime drove front and center, his alt mode unmistakable even at a distance. He was flanked by a black and white Dodge charger, a military green pick-up truck, and a black GMC Topkick. In the distance, still more vehicles approached. Thundercracker caught glimpses of colorful plating and halogen lights, before turning his attention back towards his Air Commander. Starscream stood at the edge of the energy barrier, his body rigid and his faceplates twisted with impatience. Wordlessly, Thundercracker and Skywarp assumed their positions on his left and right flank respectively, watching the approaching Autobots with more than a little tension.

Prime came to a stop a short distance away and then he began to transform. The three vehicles that had accompanied him to the energy barrier quickly follow suit, and soon the bipedal modes of Prime’s secondary commanders were visible in the darkness. They stood in a loose semi-circle behind him, their weapons primed and their battlemasks engaged. The remainder of their reinforcements took up position half a league away.

Starscream snapped his digits impatiently, gesturing towards the energy shield.

“Do you expect me to converse with you through plasma?” He asked, scathingly, “If I wanted to attack, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

Prime stepped forward, his brilliant blue optics narrowed over his battle mask. After a moment, and without any outward cue from the Autobot leader, the energy field shimmered and then disappeared. Immediately, Starscream stepped forward, standing pede to pede with the taller warbuild.

“Is it true?” He demanded, returning Prime’s heated gaze, “Did Megatron share charge with the boy?”

Thundercracker grimaced internally at the Air Commander’s tactlessness, but he could not deny that it had an effect. Behind the Autobot leader, two of his secondary commanders stiffened as though in surprise. The bulky weapon’s specialist shifted from pede to pede, rumbling low in his chassis—an onimous sound that was echoed by the Elite Guard. Thundercracker had less than an astrosecond to wonder, incredulously, whether Prime had kept this information from his senior officers, when the Autobot leader pinned his trinemate with a disapproving stare. 

“I am not about to indulge your grotesque curiosity, Starscream.” Prime replied, naked enmity in his voice.

Starscream waved a servo, as though brushing aside the Prime’s words.

“Spare me your sanctimoniousness,” Starscream snapped, “I have already played twenty questions with one enigmatic mech, I will not do so with another.”

“Watch your tone, Seeker.” Ironhide growled, his voice like molten metal.

Starscream folded his arms over his chassis, lifting his chin a fraction of an inch to stare down his nasal ridge at the weapon’s specialist.

“Be silent, you knuckle-dragging ground pounder. Your betters are speaking.”

Ironhide’s optics narrowed into azure slits, his frame tensing in obvious aggression. Thundercracker’s fuel pump missed a beat, and he keyed up his flight protocols as a matter of course—even working together, his trine stood no chance in a ground battle against even a single war-frame. Before he could take action, however, Optimus Prime turned to regard his secondary commander. An unspoken conversation passed between them, and then the weapon’s specialist crossed his arms and nodded minutely. The Autobot leader turned back to Starscream, his optics sharp and assessing.

“What is the purpose of this meeting, Air Commander?”

“I want to know to what extent the Supreme Commander of my Armada has bastardized my Creator protocols to serve his own ends.” Starscream seethed, his tone sharp with proprietary fury.

“What happened to my ward in your custody is not a topic that I am willing to discuss.” Prime rumbled ominously.

Starscream’s affront burned through their bond, but before he could voice his anger, Thundercracker cleared his intakes insistently. Both the Prime and his Air Commander turned to regard him, one in expectation and the other in indignation.

“Respectfully, Prime, I see no value in doublespeak or innuendo. We are fully aware of what happened to Sam while he was in Megatron’s custody.” Thundercracker stated, flatly, “We are here to determine what is to be done about it.”

Ironhide scoffed derisively, “What are you suggesting? Do you plan to move against your Master? Do you plan to defect?”

“Not hardly.” Starscream snapped, “The Vosian Armada will never be commanded by a Prime.”

Before Ironhide could retort, Prime held up a quelling servo. The weapon’s specialist fell silent, but his optics remained narrowed in Starscream’s direction.

“I have already informed you of our terms. I will accept nothing less than Megatron’s unconditional surrender.”

Starscream drew himself up to his full height, staring considerately up at the Autobot leader. After a moment, he jutted out a hip strut, and tapped the slender tip of one digit against his chin.

“You will accept nothing less than his unconditional surrender.” Starscream repeated, thoughtfully, “And if Megatron will not surrender?”

Optimus’s blue optics shone preternaturally bright in the darkness of the airfield. When next he spoke, it was with grim determination, the kind born of unspeakable loss.

“Then I will accept his death.”

Starscream’s optics sharpened as a predatory smile spread slowly across his face.

“Well then. I suppose that makes everything a great deal simpler, doesn’t it?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's note** : Thank-you to each and every person who has offered their support on this story, whether in terms of comments, kudos, bookmarks, and/or subscriptions. I am so deeply flattered and appreciative for each and every one of you.

As time trudged inexorably onward with no signs of an attack, the atmosphere within the hangar gradually shifted. The fear and confusion that had been prevalent in the immediate aftermath of the evacuation began to fade, replaced with a sort of wry impatience. As the last of the civilian support staff trickled into the hangar, people arranged themselves in loose groups. They chatted amiably with one another, some standing while others sat cross-legged on the floor. There were occasional bouts of laughter and good-natured complaining, but otherwise people listened attentively to the instructions provided by Ultra Magnus or Red Alert. Approximately twenty minutes after they had arrived, the strident wail of the proximity alarm abruptly shut off. There was a moment of echoing silence, and then scattered applause broke out around the large room. At Sam’s side, his father shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

“Can we go back to bed now?”

Bumblebee whistled a negative, causing his father to glance up at him in confusion. Sam shook his head, translating on Bee’s behalf.

“No, not yet. Ultra Magnus will give the all clear when we can leave.”

His father pushed the sleeve of his sweater up past his wrist and stared in narrow-eyed displeasure at his watch. The sub-text behind the gesture was clear, and Sam’s lips thinned in a grimace. If he had had any doubts as to whether his father was coping well with all that had happened, they had been dispelled over the last hour. He glanced over his father’s shoulder, making eye contact with his mother. Sam stared at her meaningfully, his face twisting in a plaintive expression. She returned his gaze, tired but understanding, before she tugged on his father’s elbow.

“Ron, I need to stretch my legs.”

“So take a walk.” He replied, grumpily.

His mother slapped him on the chest with the back of her hand, “I’m not walking around here by myself. Come on, they have coffee.”

Sam’s father glanced towards the far wall, where several folding tables had been hastily erected and two soldiers were pouring coffee from large carafes. The line of people waiting for a warm beverage extended all the way down the hangar.

“Look at that line! They’ll run out of coffee before we even get close.”

“Ron.” His mother hissed between clenched teeth, “I. Want. Some. Coffee.”

Sam’s lips twitched precariously, his mother’s clipped enunciation emphasizing each capital letter. With a put-upon sigh, his father shook his head and gestured vaguely towards the back of the line.

“Alright, keep your shirt on.” He grumbled, “Don’t blame me if we wait around for nothing.”

Sam watched his parents make their way across the hangar. As soon as they were out of earshot, he glanced up at his guardian. Bumblebee was crouched beside him, his arms resting on his knee struts and an attentive expression on his face. The confusing swell of _agitation-hostility-aggression_ that had lit up their bond in the aftermath of the proximity alarm had mellowed, taking on a calmer, protective edge.

“Any news?” Sam asked.

Bumblebee shook his head, “Prime has restricted the tacnet to high-priority communications only. The last message was from Prowl regarding the energy barrier deactivation.”

Sam frowned faintly, but he nodded in understanding all the same. Bumblebee had told them when Skywarp and Thundercracker had arrived, and then when the barrier had been deactivated, but that had been almost half an hour ago. Something about his expression must have been telling, for Dave smiled at him encouragingly from where he stood a short distance away.

“I’m sure it won’t be long now.” Dave said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his sleep pants. The sight of the usually meticulous-looking agent in casual wear caused a teasing grin to spread across Sam’s face.

“Carter, I meant to tell you—nice jams.”

The agent glanced down at himself, taking in his lounge pants and long-sleeved Packers shirt, before he tossed a wry smile in Sam’s direction.

“I was fast asleep when the alarm went off.”

Sam pantomimed an expression of wide-eyed surprise.

“You sleep? I assumed that Optimus plugged you in to re-charge at the end of the day.”

The wry expression on Dave’s face deepened, and he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with his forefinger and thumb, “I’ll have you know that I sleep five to six hours a night, just like every other workaholic insomniac I know.”

Bumblebee chirped in amusement, a rolling staccato sound that was vaguely reminiscent of a chuckle. Sam glanced up at him, a genuine smile lighting up his face.

“You’re getting really good at that.” He complimented.

Bumblebee’s optics brightened, the yellow antennae on either side of his head perking up. The scout nodded once, definitively, before he flexed both arms in a dramatic fashion.

Sam laughed aloud, turning his head to make a joking remark to Dave, when he froze. There, standing beside Perceptor in front of the ground bridge controls, was Wheeljack. He seemed to be listening to what the scientist was saying, nodding his head as the other spoke. The sight of him caused Sam’s heart to wedge itself into his trachea as he was bombarded with anguish and uncertainty. The engineer looked much the same as he had that night in the forest—bouncing slightly on his double-jointed legs, worrying his servos together—but something was wrong. His seemingly limitless enthusiasm was missing; instead, the engineer was quiet and subdued. Even Wheeljack’s fin panels, which were normally vibrant and colorful, had assumed a dim, muddy brown appearance.

Sam stepped away from Bumblebee, as though to cross the space between himself and the engineer, when he felt a restraining touch in his mind. He turned, following the mental trail, to come eye-to-optic with Ratchet. The medic was standing in place beside Ultra Magnus, but his attention was focused solely on Sam.

_//It would be unkind to approach him in public.//_

Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the medic’s words. Before he could voice his confusion, however, Ratchet’s presence thrummed with _discretion-privacy-caution._ Sam stared at him a long moment before understanding dawned on him. Of course it would be unkind to approach Wheeljack in public—it would put him on the spot in front of his superiors and his colleagues. He nodded faintly, mouthing _‘thank-you’_ in Ratchet’s direction, before he reluctantly turned back to Dave and Bumblebee. Immediately, his gaze was drawn to the yellow scout, who was watching him with inscrutable optics. For reasons that Sam could not fully articulate, the piercing quality of Bumblebee’s stare put his hackles up.

 _//What?//_ He demanded, his voice sharper than he had intended.

 _//Nothing.//_ Bumblebee replied.

Sam narrowed his eyes, searching for any indication of disapproval on Bumblebee’s face or through their bond. Finding none, Sam’s irritation softened into something closer to exasperation.

 _//He’s my friend.//_ He said, his mental voice taking on an entreating edge, _//I’m not going to ignore him because you’re in a snit.//_

Bumblebee’s optics became distant in the way that suggested he was researching the phrase. A second later, they narrowed fractionally as _denial-irritation_ flashed between them.

 _//I am not in a snit,//_ Bumblebee replied, disapprovingly, _//and I would not presume to dictate your social circle.//_

Sam winced, equal parts surprised and chagrined by the scout’s tone. He could not remember the last time that Bumblebee had sounded so affronted. Sam tentatively raised a hand, uncertain whether Bumblebee would rebuff him, and pressed it against the scout’s spark casing.

“Sorry.” Sam murmured. 

Bumblebee ex-vented softly, and warm air washed over Sam’s face. A moment later, Bumblebee raised a servo and pressed the tips of his digits over Sam’s hand. It was a reconciliatory gesture, equal parts forgiving and apologetic, and Sam smiled faintly in appreciation. Before either of them could speak, Dave cleared his throat behind them. Sam turned, surprised at the urgent quality of the agent’s interruption, when Dave looked meaningfully behind them. Sam turned back around and saw his parents making their way across the hangar. Even at a distance, he could see the penetrating stare that his father was directing their way.

Sam dropped his hand and stepped away from the protective cage of Bumblebee’s limbs. He smiled at his parents as they approached, unable to prevent himself from crossing his arms over his chest.

“Back so soon?” He asked, forced levity in his voice.

“They ran out of coffee.” His father replied, his eyes not leaving Bumblebee’s face.

“That’s too bad.” Sam replied, “I could definitely use some caffeine right about now.”

Before his father could reply, Bumblebee whistled long and low. In virtually perfect unison, Sam, his parents, and Dave all turned to look up at the scout.

“The Seekers have left our airspace. Optimus has asked his senior officers and staff to convene in the command center.”

Almost before the words had left Bumblebee’s vocoder, Ultra Magnus’ deep tenor boomed across the hangar.

“The activation has ended. Please return to your domiciles in an orderly fashion.”

A collective sigh went up from the assembled people, and _en masse,_ they began to make their way towards the hangar entrance. As people streamed past them on both sides, Sam took note of their expressions. Most people were affecting relief and good-natured humor, but there was also the occasional twist of frustration or irritation among the crowd. The latter expression was mirrored on his father’s face, which had become pinched and closed off.

“Alright, let’s go.” He said, placing a large hand on his mother’s elbow, “Not that I’ll be able to fall back to sleep.”

Before Sam could reply, Bumblebee whistled at them again. It was a meaningful sound, high-pitched and chirpy, and it effectively caught his parents’ attention.

“Prime has requested Sam’s presence at the debriefing.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the scout in surprise. That was an abrupt about-face from Optimus’ position two days ago when he had met with his senior officers regarding Thundercracker’s request for parlay. Before he could give voice to his confusion, however, his father’s expression caused him to swallow his words. Ron had narrowed his eyes, which were almost black with anger, as a flush bloomed across his cheeks.

“Sam isn’t going to any debriefing.” His father replied tightly, “He’s going to bed.”

Sam felt his stomach bottom out at the foreboding tone in his father’s voice. Dave looked from Bumblebee, to Sam’s father, and back again before he politely excused himself and stepped away. His mother leaned close to his father, as though to speak to him in confidence. Before she could say anything, however, Bumblebee attempted to provide clarification for his words.

“Prime has indicated that Sam—“

Bumblebee’s words caused his father’s flush to deepen to a vivid crimson. He took a step towards the yellow scout, cutting him off abruptly.

“Optimus Prime can go hang himself for all that I care.” His father snapped, “In case it has escaped your notice, my son is convalescing.”

Although Bumblebee’s outward appearance did not change, Sam could feel the hot swell of _offense_ that his father’s words had caused.

“Dad.” Sam said, aghast, at the same time that his mother snapped, “ _Ron!”_

“What, Judy?” His father demanded, turning angry eyes towards his wife, “I’ve kept my peace, but enough is enough. He is skin and bones, for Christ’s sake.”

To Sam’s intense mortification, he realized that his father’s angry voice had begun to garner attention from the crowd of people around them. Although most passersby were politely averting their eyes, the naked curiosity on their faces was impossible to misinterpret. Sam winced his eyes shut as burning heat stole up his neck and across his face.

“Ronald Kevin Witwicky.” His mother hissed in abject fury, “Lower your voice! You’re embarrassing him in front of his people.”

His father jerked his head around, staring at his mother in disbelief.

“Judy, listen to yourself. _We’re his people!”_ His father snapped.

The outrage in his father’s voice caused Sam’s throat to close up with helpless anguish. It was a curiously familiar feeling, and all at once, Sam could pinpoint it exactly. When he had been a young child, his parents had rented a cabin outside of San Diego. It had been located along a private stretch of sandy beach a short distance away from the ocean. Sam had only brief glimpses of memories from their stay—sandcastles and campfires and s’mores—but those were not the memories that stood out to him. No, the memory that he most closely associated with the cabin on the beach was the feeling of treading water as panic overwhelmed him. As his mother often retold the story over the following years, he had wandered away from his parents one morning and fell off the dock into the inky ocean. He had almost drowned before a neighbor had dove in and saved him. That feeling of being helpless and adrift, of struggling to get air into spasming lungs as darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, was exactly the same feeling that enveloped him now.

Distantly, as though he were under water, Sam became aware that his mother was speaking.

“We’re his family, but we are not his people.” His mother snapped, her voice low and controlled despite her anger, “Now stop making a scene this instant!”

All at once, Bumblebee’s familiar presence filled his mind as their bond blossomed to life between them. It was warmth and affection and protectiveness, and Sam was unable to prevent the choked sound of relief that escaped him. All at once, he felt grounded, just as he had when strong arms had pulled him from the depths as a child. He leaned into Bumblebee’s winter-white glow, basking in the soothing calm of their bond-space. After a few moments of Bee’s wordless support, he felt steady enough to speak.

“Dad, stop.” Sam said, tiredly, as he opened his eyes, “I’m going to meet with Optimus. You should go back to your apartment and get some sleep.”

His father turned to look at him, his eyes flinty with anger, “You think so, do you?”

“Yes.” Sam replied, matter-of-factly, “He wouldn’t have asked for me if it wasn’t important.”

His father’s flush deepened to a splotchy maroon, but before he could reply, Ratchet interceded on Sam’s behalf.

“I share your concern, Mr. Witwicky.” The medic cut in as he approached, “I will ensure that Sam does not overtax himself.”

His father angled his head so that he could glare up at the medic. Ratchet returned his stare, hands on his hip struts and a no-nonsense expression on his face.

“I don’t think you do share my concern.” His father replied tightly, “For reasons I can’t figure out, I seem to be the only person on this god-forsaken island who remembers that he was a prisoner of war less than a week ago!”

Sam could feel Bumblebee’s affront and Ratchet’s cool disapproval, but neither of them let their emotions show on their faces. He sighed internally, realizing all at once that this argument wasn’t about to be resolved anytime soon. The realization made him feel tired and, abruptly, he needed the conversation to be over. He straightened his spine and pinned his father with a serious look.

“I remember, Dad.” He said, “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m a ward of Cybertron. I have responsibilities now, whether you like it or not.”

His father turned to look at him, his expression a maelstrom of emotion. Where Sam had expected anger and denial, however, he saw instead the faintest glimmer of fear. It was an expression that had no place on his father’s face. 

“I’m alright Dad.” Sam murmured, stepped forward to give his bicep a reassuring squeeze, “As soon as the debriefing is over, I’ll get something to eat and go to bed. We can talk later.”

His father stared at him for a long moment, his eyes roving over Sam’s face, before he abruptly deflated. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head faintly.

“Yeah. Yeah, all right Sammy. We’ll talk later.” His father replied quietly, and Sam flinched minutely at the nickname. Only his mother ever called him Sammy—his father never used the familiar endearment.

Sam glanced over at his mother. He could see the grief and exhaustion that she was trying so determinedly to hide. Their eyes met for a brief second and Sam nodded faintly. His mother’s mouth twisted with grim resignation, but she returned his nod a moment later.

“Let’s go, Ron.” She murmured, taking his large hand in her own. His father muttered a terse affirmative, and shortly thereafter, they climbed into Red Alert’s waiting cab. As soon as the doors closed shut behind them, the Lamborghini Countach accelerated out of the mostly empty hangar in the direction of North Quad. Sam watched them until Red Alert disappeared around the corner, and then he wilted in exhaustion. Through the haze of his thoughts, he was aware of Bumblebee’s concern and Ratchet’s disapproval. After a long moment, he glanced up at the chartreuse medic with a wry twist of his mouth.

“I can’t believe you agreed to let me attend the debriefing.”

“I didn’t.” Came the clipped reply, “Prime pulled rank.”

Sam frowned faintly, feeling a burgeoning sense of trepidation in his gut, “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It is unusual.” Ratchet conceded, “He will explain when he arrives.”

The frown that had been pulling at the corners of Sam’s mouth abruptly deepened, “He’s coming here? Why?”

“He has cause to speak with you before the debriefing.”

“Do you know what about?”

“Yes, I do.” Ratchet replied coolly, “But Prime will explain.”

Despite his pestering, Sam could get nothing else out of the medic. Eventually, he turned back towards Bumblebee, stepping close to his chassis and pressing his forehead against his chest plates. The metal was warm beneath his skin, and Sam could feel the faint tremors from Bumblebee’s internal workings—fuel pump drawing energon through arterial lines, stabilizing pistons hissing in a steady rhythm. It was a familiar, soothing sound and Sam sighed softly in response. Bumblebee whistled at him quietly, bringing one large servo to rest against Sam’s back.

 _//Thank-you.//_ Sam said at last, his mental voice barely more than a pulse of appreciation.

Bumblebee brushed against him, warm and gentle, _//You’re welcome, Sam.//_

 _//I knew he wouldn’t take it well.//_ Sam replied, after a long moment, _//I hope my mother can talk him down.//_

_//I am certain that all will be well.//_

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, a faint smile curling the corners of his lips.

_//I’m sorry for what he said. Thanks for taking it in stride.//_

_//There is no apology necessary, from either you or your father.//_ Bumblebee replied, _//His reaction was understandable, given the circumstances.//_

Sam pulled back slightly, tilting his head so that he could stare up at the yellow scout.

“You have the patience of a saint.”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in good humor, and he brushed the tips of his digits against the back of Sam’s neck.

“I’m millions of years old. I’ve had time to practice.”

Sam laughed faintly, pressing his cheek against Bumblebee’s spark casing. They stood there like that for an interminable time, until the familiar rumble of a Peterbilt engine pierced the quiet that had descended over the hangar. Sam sighed, turning his head to regard the large truck as it slowed to a stop a short distance away. With the sound of shifting metal and the pneumatic hiss of hydraulics, Optimus transformed into his bipedal mode. Once his transformation sequence was complete, the large mechanoid lowered to one knee in front of him. Reluctantly, Sam stepped away from the warmth of Bumblebee’s chassis and walked towards the Autobot leader.

“Hey Optimus.” Sam said, and then remembering his conversation with Smokescreen, he grimaced faintly, “Or Prime, whatever you want to be called.”

Optimus’ expression was inscrutable, but he inclined his helm slightly.

“Your familiarity is not offensive, Sam.”

“Oh. Okay then, that’s good.” Sam replied, taken aback by the stark sincerity in Optimus’ voice. He pushed his hands into his pockets, stepping towards the large mechanoid, “Alright then, out with it. What happened?”

Optimus’ optics shuttered slowly, and he ex-vented a soft sigh.

“Starscream has learned the truth of what happened to you while onboard the _Nemesis_. As a result of his tactlessness, Prowl, Ironhide, and Kup have become privy to the facts as well.”

Sam stared up at the Autobot leader in stunned disbelief. Whatever he had expected Optimus to say, that had certainly not been it. It took him a long moment to marshal his thoughts before he could speak.

“I see.” He replied, eventually, “Is that why he came here?”

Optimus inclined his helm in solemn agreement, “It is. Starscream has taken great offense at the use of his protocols for such an end.”

Sam’s mouth twisted in a grimace, “You’re telling me that Starscream feels guilty?”

There was a low rumble deep within Optimus’ chassis, as his optics narrowed considerately, “I am not certain that is the correct term for what he feels. He is affronted, certainly, and deeply outraged by the disrespect that Megatron has afforded him. Whether he feels guilty for his part in the abuse is a matter of speculation.”

Sam frowned at the Autobot leader, “Alright, so he’s pissed off. He came all this way to complain?”

Optimus shook his helm minutely, “No. He came all of this way to offer a truce.”

Sam’s eyes widened in shocked disbelief, “A _truce_?”

“So that we might pose a united front against our mutual enemy.”

He stared up at the Autobot leader incredulously, “I don’t understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. Starscream is defecting?”

“Not defecting, no. He will seek to depose Megatron with our assistance.”

“He is an opportunistic little intrigant.” Ratchet spat, his tone acidic.

Optimus turned to regard his Chief Medical Officer, something like grim agreement in his optics.

“Perhaps so, but for the moment, our purposes align.” Optimus replied.

“How long is that going to last?” Sam asked, frowning, “He’ll betray you the moment that he assumes control.”

“Starscream’s inevitable betrayal will be neither a surprise nor a matter for concern. For all of his intelligence and skill, he has only a fraction of Megatron’s experience and ability—nor does he have Megatron’s penchant for inspiring loyalty in his followers.” Optimus refuted seriously, “As a result, I suspect that a great number of Decepticons will refuse to follow Starscream’s command.”

“I don’t understand.” Sam said, confused by the confidence in Optimus’ voice, “Won’t that mean that we have two factions fighting us instead of one?”

“Two significantly weaker factions who will also be at war with one another.” Optimus replied, “A schism within the Decepticon ranks would give us a considerable advantage in this war.”

“If you say so.” Sam said, unable to keep doubt out of his voice, “So, what now?”

“Now we prepare for a parlay, so that each side can outline the terms and conditions of their cooperation.”

“What are our terms?” Sam asked, unable to control his curiosity.

Optimus stared at him for a long moment, his expression solemn and serious.

“I will accept Megatron’s unconditional surrender or his death. In exchange, my forces will assist the command trine in their endeavor to depose Megatron from power. My cooperation is contingent upon Starscream’s vow to cease hostilities against the humans immediately. If he is successful in his coup, then I will also agree to a pact of non-aggression, so long as my conditions regarding peaceful cohabitation with humans and Autobots are honored.”

Sam listened attentively, his eyes narrowed in consideration. When Optimus finished speaking, Sam scrubbed his hands over his face.

“That sounds good in theory, Optimus, but Starscream will never honor it.”

“I suspect that he will honor the agreement until he achieves his objectives. If a schism occurs within the Decepticon ranks, however, he may well honor it for a great deal longer. He cannot afford to fight a war on two fronts before he has established his authority as Lord High Protector.”

Sam chewed on his bottom lip as he digested all that Optimus had said. After a moment, he looked up at the Autobot leader.

“Will it work?” He asked, quietly.

“I believe it is the best chance that we have for ending this accursed conflict. Never before in our sordid history have Starscream and Soundwave aligned purposes. Together, they pose a very real threat to Megatron’s power.”

Sam jerked back in surprise, unable to keep the look of stunned disbelief off his face, “Soundwave?”

Optimus inclined his helm, “If Starscream is to be believed, he is the orchestrator of this coup.”

“I find that very hard to believe.” Sam replied tightly. He would never forget the feeling of Soundwave’s mental fingers digging in his mind, rifling through his memories and laying them bare for the warlord.

“I have my qualms as well, Sam.” Optimus agreed, “We will know soon enough.”

Sam felt a familiar sense of anxiety at the Autobot leader’s tone. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to find a way to put his misgivings into words. After a long moment, Sam asked, tentatively, “Could this be a trap?”

“It is possible,” Optimus conceded gravely, “but I will not repeat my previous mistakes. We will carefully plan for every contingency before we take action.”

Sam nodded faintly, reassured by the stark note of _promise_ in the Autobot leader’s words.

“What does this mean for me?” He asked uncertainly.

Optimus’ optics became fathomless as they brightened to a startling, azure blue, “By the grace of Primus, this will mean peace. True, everlasting peace, so that you may live the rest of your life out from beneath Megatron’s shadow.”

Sam shivered at the note of solemnity in Optimus’ tone. He rubbed one hand up and down his arm, chasing away the goosebumps that prickled his skin.

“What do they think?” Sam asked eventually, unable to meet Optimus’ optics, “’Hide and the others, I mean.”

Optimus was silent for a moment, an eternity by Cybertronian standards, before he reached a large servo towards him. Sam stared back at him in surprise, but he did not balk or pull away. Optimus pressed his palm against Sam’s back, a tender and reassuring gesture.

“They were shocked and outraged on your behalf.” Optimus replied simply, “Yet you need not fear for your privacy. I have forbidden them to speak of the matter.”

Sam nodded faintly, torn between appreciation and discomfort. His expression must have been telling, for Optimus’ optics softened with an unreadable emotion.

“The shame is not yours, Sam.” He said gently, “It is Megatron’s. No one would think otherwise.”

Sam swallowed against the emotion that closed his throat, “Optimus, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I would rather talk about literally anything else.”

Optimus’ optics flitted over Sam’s face so quickly that he thought he might have imagined it, before the Autobot leader nodded gravely, “As you wish. The debriefing will cover all that I have told you, and then we will begin preparations for the parlay. Do you wish to attend?”

Sam was rocked by a tidal wave of angry disapproval from Ratchet, and he glanced over his shoulder at the medic. Ratchet was standing a short distance away, his arms crossed tightly over his chassis and a tumultuous expression on his faceplates. Tentatively, Sam brushed against his mental presence—it was an imploring touch, hesitant and uncertain.

_//Ratchet, please. I don’t want to be alone right now. It’s been a weird night.//_

The medic ex-vented a sharp snort, but his optics softened, becoming considerate where once they had been scathing. After a moment, Sam felt the medic’s mental fingers brush across his mind.

_//I will consent for you to attend—begrudgingly—if you agree to leave when I say so.//_

_//Yeah, okay.//_ Sam agreed automatically. It was an easy concession to make.

“Very well.” Ratchet grumbled.

As though his words were a release, Optimus straightened to his full height and then transformed. Bumblebee and Ratchet followed suit a moment later, and as soon as the last panel slid into place, Bee’s driver’s side door popped open. Sam smiled appreciatively at the scout, patting his hood as he climbed into the cab. Once he settled into the familiar leather seat, the door closed behind him. Bumblebee followed Optimus out of the hangar, accelerating through East Quad towards the bridge. It was surprisingly empty as they drove, with only a few soldiers making their way through the cavernous tunnel. The reason for the quiet became apparent as they turned into West Quad. The Transformer section of the Hive was a bustle of activity, with soldiers, civilian support staff, logicians, and technicians making their way towards the command center.

As Bumblebee pulled into the large room a short while later, Sam quickly realized that more than just Optimus’ senior officers and staff had assembled for the debriefing. Prowl, Ironhide, Kup, and Ultra Magnus stood at their customary positions around the large conference table. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stood next to Hot Rod and Cliffjumper under the scaffolding, while Jolt, Red Alert, and Inferno stood together nearer the entrance. Perceptor and Wheeljack stood by the large command console at the head of the conference table, while Arcee, Chromia, and Elita-1 stood leaning against the wall on the far side of the room.

Bumblebee slowed to a stop by the scaffold steps and opened his door. Sam brushed his fingertips across the Autobot emblem on the steering wheel before he climbed out of the cab. As soon as he was clear, Bumblebee rolled back several feet and then he transformed back into his bipedal mode. As Sam climbed up the stairs, Bee stepped forward to stand between Hot Rod and Cliffjumper. Cliff glanced up at him as he walked, whistling a good-natured greeting. Sam smiled at him and waved.

By the time that he reached the top of the stairs, Sam was surprised to find himself winded. He leaned against the railing until he caught his breath, suddenly painfully aware of Ratchet’s intense scrutiny across their bond. He tossed the medic a sunny smile before he walked down the scaffold to his usual spot near Ops. To his combined relief and dread, he saw that Dave was already there, dressed once again in smart-looking business attire. At the agent’s side was Will, who was standing with his arms folded over his chest and a serious expression on his face.

Steeling himself, Sam crossed the space between them. He nodded at Dave as he approached, and then took his position beside Will. They stood in uncomfortable silence for the better part of five minutes, before Sam glanced sidelong in his direction.

“You were being an asshole, but I was worse.” He said, by way of apology, “Sorry.”

A muscle jumped in Will’s jaw, but after a tense moment, the soldier nodded.

“I heard your folks gave you a hard time in the hangar.” Will replied, voice inflectionless, “That sucks.”

Sam glanced at him again, unable to keep the surprise off his face.

“Yeah, it does.”

Will turned his head minutely to look at him, his expression impenetrable, before he replied.

“They’ll get over it. Hang in there.”

Sam nodded slowly, not daring to speak lest he say something to ruin the tentative comradery between them. He was saved from the headache of trying to decide how to react by Optimus’ commanding voice cutting across the din of the command center. All at once, the room quieted down as every person—human or Autobot—turned to regard their leader. As Optimus spoke, Wheeljack’s servos flew over the large touchpad in front of him, illuminating a transparent, three-dimensional map of the planet. Sam’s heart ached at the sight of him, and he wondered whether he should approach the engineer after the meeting or wait and let the engineer approach him. Almost as though he had read Sam’s mind, Wheeljack glanced in his direction. As soon as he laid optics on him, Wheeljack seemed to deflate, his shoulders curling forward as his fin panels swirled with sickly yellow-green.

Well aware of the guilt that the other was surely feeling, Sam arranged his expression into one of happy surprise. He smiled brightly down at him, waving with tips of his fingers as he mouthed, _‘Hey Jack’._

Wheeljack stared at him in naked surprise, the fins on his helm brightening to a jade-colored hue.

Sam’s smile widened into a grin, and he popped two playful thumbs-up. Jack blinked his optics at him slowly, before tilting his head in puzzlement. It was a familiar mannerism, one that Sam had seen him affect while trying to figure out particularly vexing equations.

 _‘I’m glad to see you.’_ Sam mouthed silently.

Wheeljack’s straightened, the dorsal fins on the back of his helm perking up as his panels brightened to sunshine yellow. Sam laughed softly, relief and happiness warming him all over. The engineer bobbed on the balls of his pedes once, twice, before gesturing at the workstation in front of him apologetically. Sam understood at once, and he made a shooing motion with his hand. Wheeljack chirped expressively, a sound that carried across the hangar, before he turned back to his work. Sam watched him for a long while, only half-listening to Optimus as he repeated information that Sam already knew.

After the debriefing, the human contingent broke into groups to begin preparations for the parlay. Almost an hour later, Sam found himself at a table with Dave, Will, and an assortment of technicians that Sam didn’t recognize. He stared uncomprehendingly at various topographical maps of Gobi desert, watching as a cartographer drew hatched lines in strategic spots. He was aware of his growing exhaustion, could feel it in the dryness of his eyes and the burning of his shoulder muscles. Yet he was grateful beyond words for the chance to be useful, to feel as though he were contributing, however minutely, to their cause.

A short while later, their work was interrupted by the arrival of a corporal bearing an armful of white take-out containers. Sam stared in surprise as the man distributed the boxes around the table with plastic cutlery and bottles of water. The man was familiar looking, with close-cropped dark hair and an open, friendly expression.

“Do I know you?” Sam blurted, surprising himself.

The man turned to look at him, a smile warming his face, “You sure do, Sir. Corporal Jackson.”

Sam tilted his head as he wracked his memory, and then realization dawned on him. Private Jackson had served in the mess hall in the months before Sam’s abduction. He had stood out for his easy-going demeanor and his steadfast refusal to refer to Sam in anything other than honorifics.

“Jackson.” Sam said, a smile spreading across his face, “Good to see you.”

“You too, Ambassador. Glad you’re back.” He replied, before nodding towards the take-away containers, “Enjoy. Chef Jefferson pulled out all the stops this morning when he got the order.”

Sam obliged the Corporal, opening the takeout container. All at once, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the air, and Sam’s mouth flooded with salvia. He had last eaten at the Officer’s club the night before, which must have been over twelve hours ago. Suddenly aware of his carving hunger, Sam glanced up at Jackson with a grin.

“Someone give this man a promotion.”

Jackson laughed good-naturedly, raising two fingers to his forehead in an informal salute, before he headed back down the gantry. Without another word, Sam tucked into his meal like a starved man. Although it was lukewarm, it tasted amazing. The bacon was crisp, a perfect blend of smoky-sweet, and the eggs were scrambled the way that he liked them. When he finished his eggs, he glanced over at Dave’s container to see that the agent had left most of his bacon untouched.

“You going to eat that?” Sam asked, pointing with his fork.

Carter glanced down in surprise, before a wry smile twisted his mouth.

“You go ahead. I’m watching my cholesterol.”

Sam laughed appreciatively, using his fork to scoop the prized protein into his container. He piled the bacon onto his buttered toast and began to eat. By the time that he started in on the waffles, Dave had started to look faintly green.

“Oh my God, Sam, did Ratchet replace your stomach with a garbage disposal?”

Sam glanced at the agent in confusion, before looking around the table. He was surprised to see that he was the only one still eating, and also the only one who had finished more than half of his meal. Sam shrugged, popping a piece of strawberry into his mouth.

“I’m recuperating.” He replied, cheekily.

Dave rolled his eyes, “Yeah well, it won’t do you any good if you throw up in twenty minutes.”

“I have a cast-iron stomach.” Sam said, “I lived for two years on cold MREs and bottled water. If congealed spaghetti and meatballs didn’t make me puke, this’ll be fine.”

Across the table, one of the technicians winced in response, “Jesus, that’s cruel and unusual punishment. There has to be a Geneva Convention article about that.”

Sam stared at him in surprise for a heartbeat, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

“If there’s not, there should be.” Sam replied once he could get the words out, “I’ll draft the proposed amendment myself.”

Beside him, Will shook his head in exasperation, but a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The rest of the meal passed by uneventfully. When Sam had finished, he tossed the empty take-away container into the trash that had been brought up to the mezzanine for that express purpose. Then, he sat back down at the table and listened as the cartographers argued about the best location to place the scouts. By the time that they had come to a reluctant compromise, Sam was beginning to feel leaden with exhaustion. The food settled pleasantly in his stomach, making him feel content and sleepy. He watched the cartographers work with half-lidded eyes, drifting comfortably.

 _//You’re done. Let’s go.//_ Ratchet’s voice cut into his mind, startling him into full wakefulness. He glanced over to see that Ratchet had approached in his bipedal mode, and was staring down at him expectantly. Sam quirked a smile up at the medic, before pushing himself to his feet.

“That’s it for me, I’m afraid. Thanks everyone.” Sam said, raising his hand in a gesture of farewell. He pushed in his chair before making his way down the gantry towards the stairs, which he slowly descended. The room was quieter now, with humans and Autobots alike speaking quietly in small groups. As he stepped onto the floor, Ratchet’s alt mode pulled up in front of him.

“Get in.” The medic instructed as his driver’s side door opened.

Sam obliged without protest. As he settled into the large bucket seat, the door closed behind him. Ratchet accelerated out of the command center without another word. Sam glanced down at the digital display on the dashboard, surprised to see that it was almost seven o’clock in the morning.

“I didn’t realize it was so late… or early, rather.” He murmured, relaxing into the seat.

“Yes, time does fly when preparing for a military deployment.” Ratchet replied dryly.

He laughed quietly in response, “Yeah, I guess it does.”

To Sam’s surprise, Ratchet did not take him to North Quad. Instead, the medic pulled into the medical bay and rolled to a stop in front of the familiar berth. Sam glanced at the dashboard, as though to ask for an explanation, when he felt a pulse of _warning_ across their bond. He barely had the time to brace himself before Ratchet’s cabin exploded in a complicated twist of metal paneling. A moment later, Sam found himself set down in front of the gurney.

“Up you get.” Ratchet said briskly.

“Seriously?” Sam asked in exasperation.

“Seriously.” Ratchet replied, “I have every intention of keeping an eye on you until your penchant for self-destruction has abated.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he understood the unyielding iron in the medic’s tone. Obligingly, Sam toed off his shoes and unfastened his fly, shimmying out of his jeans without complaint. A moment later, he climbed up into the gurney and pulled the blankets over his legs. Ratchet watched him in silence, his vivid blue optics shining brightly in the dim light of the hangar.

As Sam settled back against the mattress, he glanced up at the medic with a faint smile.

“Thanks for that. Earlier, I mean.”

“Go to sleep.” The medic groused in reply, but there was no heat in his words.

“I’m serious.”

“I understand, Sam. You can wax and wane your appreciation to me after you’ve gotten some rest.”

“Well, I wanted you to know. You’re good to me, Ratchet.”

“Obviously.” The medic replied, the faintest edge of dry humor in his tone, “Now go to sleep.”

“Yeah, but I know that you and Optimus—“

“Primus save me from willful younglings.” Ratchet muttered to himself.

“I’m just saying—“

The medic ex-vented a sigh, pinning Sam with a dry look.

“I warned you.” Ratchet said, almost pleasantly. In the next instant, Sam felt a firm touch in his mind. Before he could protest, there was an abrupt _pushing_ sensation, and then Sam tumbled down into a deep sleep.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter warning** : Fluff, angst, and explicit sexual content, in that order.

The West Quad was quiet and still, a welcome counterbalance to the frantic urgency that spurred him forward. Sam walked quickly, his eyes skipping over the closed doors on either side of the cavernous corridor. Although he did not know where he was going, he was certain that he was getting closer. He turned, glancing over his shoulder as he walked. The curtain of darkness that had followed him all the way from North Quad draped the hallway in shadow, obscuring the path that he had taken. Despite his earlier fear, his silent companion no longer felt malicious—instead, it felt patient. Expectant.

Something compelled Sam to glance down, and he startled in surprise. Once again, the lithe form of Ravage padded along at his side. The cyber cat walked in tandem with him, matching his pace with ease. Although Sam’s curiosity piqued at the sight of her, his steps did not falter.

“You’re here.” He observed quietly.

“I am.”

Sam was silent for a moment longer, and then he asked, “Where did you go?”

“I did not leave.” She replied, angling her head to look at him.

Although her words were enigmatic, Sam felt a swell of relief in response.

“I’m glad.” He murmured, reaching out a hand to brush his fingertips over her broad head, “I can’t do this alone.”

Ravage rumbled, low in her chassis. It was a contemplative sound, reflective and thoughtful.

“You are not alone, Sam. I am with you, always.”

Sam smiled, comforted by her promise. Together, they made their way deeper into West Quad, further than Sam had ventured before. They passed the command center, the training range, the berthing hangars, Prime’s office—all closed. The only sound to mark their procession was the squeak of Sam’s shoes against concrete and the sound of Ravage’s metal claws _tinkling_ against the floor. They walked side by side, neither outpacing the other—if Sam was asked, he would have been hard-pressed to say which of them was leading and which was following. Eventually, they turned down an empty corridor that ended in a large, white door. As with all of the others that they had passed, this door was also closed. Sam ambled forward until he stood inches away from it. The door blended almost perfectly into the wall, visible only by the half-inch outline that extended around its edges.

Sam glanced down at Ravage expectantly.

“Well, what now?” He asked.

The cyber cat sat on her haunches, curling her long, metal tail over her paws.

“I do not know. For all of my knowledge, I am not omniscient.”

Sam frowned faintly, stymied by her strange non-answer.

“I’m where I’m supposed to be. I can feel it.”

“Well then, we shall wait.” Ravage replied, “We have been blessed with an abundance of time.”

Sam nodded faintly before lowering himself onto the floor beside her. He crossed his legs, grasping his knees with his hands, as he stared up at the imposing doorway.

Behind them, the shadows gathered in silence.

* * *

Sam woke slowly, shifting comfortably against the mattress. The medical bay was quiet except for the faint hum of distant machinery. It was a familiar and comforting sound, and Sam sighed softly in contentment. He rolled onto his side, burying his face into the pillow, as he pulled the blankets up around his ears. Sam laid there for an interminable time, just beginning to drift off again, when he heard heavy footsteps approach the berth.

“Come on, wake up.” Ratchet instructed briskly.

Sam groaned under his breath.

“I’m tired, Ratchet. Go away.”

The medic scoffed loudly, a derisive sound if ever Sam heard one.

“Whose fault is that?” Ratchet asked unsympathetically, “Get up or you’ll be awake all night… _again_.”

Sam pulled the blankets away from his face, glaring balefully at the chartreuse mechanoid.

“Go to sleep, get up—God, make up your mind.” Sam complained.

Ratchet snorted in response, reaching over to place a familiar-looking cafeteria tray on the overbed table.

“I see that a lengthy rest has done nothing to improve your exasperating manner.”

Sam rolled his eyes as the memory of that morning rose to the forefront of his mind.

“Thanks for that, by the way.” Sam replied dryly, scrubbing his hand over his face, “What time is it?”

“Two o’clock in the afternoon.” Ratchet answered, moving the overbed table towards him with a pointed look. Sam sighed in resignation and pushed himself up into a sitting position. A cursory look revealed that the medic had brought him a sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk. Sam’s lips quirked up, and he glanced at Ratchet in dry amusement.

“Do you have the Food Pyramid taped to your workbench?” He asked, only partially in jest.

Ratchet snorted again, a sharp ex-vent of air, as he folded his arms over his chassis.

“You can use the nutrients.”

“French fries have potassium.” Sam returned glibly, picking up the sandwich.

“And an overabundance of sodium and trans-unsaturated fatty acids.”

“Well, it’s not like I need to worry about having a heart attack.”

“A fortunate reality, given your proclivity for nutritionally questionable foodstuffs.”

Sam laughed lightly, opening his sandwich to pick off the mealy-looking tomato slice. He dropped it onto the paper plate and then replaced the slice of bread. As he took a bite, he glanced up at the medic again.

“I can’t believe I’ve never thought to ask—is there an energon equivalent to junk food?”

Ratchet’s expression mellowed, becoming contemplative. He tilted his head as he stared down at Sam.

“Once, before the war.” He replied, “Energon could be refined into high-grade fuel and confectionary. The process is too energy-intensive to bother with any longer.”

Sam took another bite of his sandwich, mulling over the revelation.

“What made it confectionary?” He asked, eventually, “Does refining energon change its taste or its potency?”

Ratchet’s expression became faintly surprised, as though he were taken aback by Sam’s inquiry.

“That is an astute question. The short answer is that it did both, in so far as beings without an organic gustatory system can perceive taste.”

Sam tilted his head, puzzled by the medic’s response.

“You can’t taste energon?”

“I didn’t say that.” Ratchet replied dryly, “Our sensation of taste would be more analogous to your olfactory system. Odorants stimulate the Cybertronian equivalent of sensory neurons within our sensory arrays, which provide data that could be likened to taste and smell.”

Sam frowned faintly, trying to make sense of Ratchet’s words. After a long moment, he ventured, tentatively, “So you smell things instead of tasting them?”

“That is grossly reductive, but it is essentially correct.”

“Bummer.” Sam replied sympathetically, taking another bite of his sandwich, “When Megatron showed me what energon was like, my brain associated it with food—cold beer, hot coffee, that sort of thing.”

Ratchet’s mouthplates thinned in a grimace, the mention of Megatron souring his mood. Sam could feel the swell of _animosity-anger_ through their bond as though the feelings had been his own. Before the medic could comment, however, another thought occurred to Sam. He swallowed his mouthful of nutritionally balanced boredom, and tilted his head in curiosity.

“Is refined energon toxic to me?”

Ratchet’s optics shuttered slowly, “What?”

“Refined energon. Is it still toxic to me?” Sam repeated, “With the Allspark energy in my body, I mean.”

“Dare I ask what put that thought into your head?”

Sam shrugged, unaffected by the dry sarcasm in Ratchet’s voice, “Megatron.”

Ratchet’s expression noticeably darkened, and the tumultuous flood of emotions across their bond became deeper still and more pronounced. Sam could not keep the wince off his face at the confusing onslaught of sensation. At once, the unfamiliar feelings were gone, replaced with a sense of quiet contriteness. Ratchet brushed gentle fingers over Sam’s mind, as though to reassure himself that he was all right. Sam smiled faintly up at the medic in response.

“Thanks, Ratch.”

“My apologies, Sam.”

“No harm, no foul.” Sam replied, taking another bite of his sandwich before he prompted, “So, energon?”

Ratchet ex-vented a slow sigh, as though he were trying to salvage the last vestiges of his patience.

“Energon is likely no longer toxic to you in its refined form. Concerns about toxicity aside, however, it is still corrosive to organic flesh.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh as he reached for his apple, “Gotcha. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid.”

Ratchet snorted in response.

“An interesting colloquialism, but apt.”

Sam wiped the shiny red flesh of the apple with his shirt before taking a bite. As he chewed and swallowed, he turned his attention inwards towards the spark bond. Bumblebee’s presence glowed at him from a distance, winter white and familiar. If he concentrated, Sam could make out brief flashes of _seriousness_ and _intent_. After a few moments, he turned questioning eyes towards Ratchet.

“What’s Bumblebee doing?”

“Ask him yourself.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “I can tell he’s busy. I don’t want to bother him.”

Ratchet’s expression became thoughtful, “Can you? What else can you tell?”

Sam was taken aback by the interest in the medic’s tone. With a burgeoning sense of curiosity, Sam turned his attention back towards the spark bond. The bond-space itself was warm and familiar, and in the distance, Bumblebee’s signature glowed at him enticingly. Instead of brushing against him in greeting, Sam concentrated on the waft of _sensation_ that crossed the space between them.

“Well, he’s focused.” Sam said slowly, “Whatever he’s doing is taking a lot of his attention.”

Ratchet nodded minutely, as though encouraging him to continue. Sam frowned faintly, struggling to make sense of the glimpses of thought, emotion, and impression that he could glean from the scout.

“He’s… angry? No, irritated. He’s definitely irritated. Whatever he’s doing, it’s really annoying.”

To Sam’s surprise, Ratchet’s mouthplates twitched up in a smile.

“Bumblebee is helping Hot Rod to rearrange the _Ark’s_ clinic. Knock Out was not satisfied with its previous layout.”

Sam stared up at the medic, torn between surprise, sympathy, and amusement.

“I hardly know what part of that sentence to address first.” Sam said, slowly, as he set down his apple core, “You’re letting Knock Out re-arrange the clinic?”

Ratchet lifted one pauldron in an indifferent shrug, “He insists that he can improve flow and efficiency. If I don’t like it, I’ll make him put it back the way it was.”

“Can’t you already tell if you’ll like it?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Do you?”

“I do not.”

A frown turned down the corners of Sam’s mouth, “Ratchet, don’t be cruel.”

Ratchet’s expression became pointed and disapproving, “I am not being cruel. Knock Out has insisted that he knows better than I do—I am giving him the opportunity to learn that he does not. It will keep him busy and satisfied for the afternoon, while also teaching him a great deal about the clinic.”

“It’ll put him in his place, you mean.” Sam translated, dryly.

“That would be a happy outcome indeed.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “He was kind to me, you know.”

“Which is why he is in the clinic and not the brig.”

He huffed a soft laugh at the sardonic tone of the medic’s voice, before brushing against Bumblebee’s signature. His touch was tentative and gentle, and his bonded’s attention focused on him in an instant. Sam pushed _affection-sympathy_ at him, and the answering swell of _exasperation_ made him laugh aloud. As he leaned into Bumblebee’s presence, he became aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny. Sam pulled away from the spark-bond slightly, glancing up at him in expectation. The medic’s optics were bright with an indefinable emotion.

“You are remarkably adept at navigating neural spaces.” Ratchet said at last, and Sam realized all at once that the expression on his face was pride _,_ “Whether the spark bond, the Creator bond, or the neural-net. I would not have thought it possible, for someone so immature.”

“Thanks… I think.”

Ratchet snorted, an unusually loud sound in the otherwise quiet hangar.

“I was referring to the development of your neural connections.” He replied dryly, “Any conclusions drawn about your emotional maturity were inferred, not implied. Perhaps something for you to reflect on.”

Sam rolled his eyes again, pushing the overbed table away as he kicked off the blankets.

“Can I take back what I said about you being so good to me?”

Rather than deigning to reply, Ratchet scoffed. The medic folded his arms loosely over his chest and pinned Sam with a flat look.

“Your neural connections are developing faster than even my most generous estimates.” Ratchet continued, as though Sam had not spoken, “At this rate, I would estimate that your connection to the neural-net will be stable within seventy years, perhaps less.”

Sam tossed the medic a sardonic look as he pulled on his pants, “Well, aren’t I the little go-getter.”

“You’re quite the prodigy.” Ratchet replied, his tone all dry sarcasm, “If you are amenable, I would like you to start spending time outside of the Creator bond today.”

Sam climbed off the gurney, bending down to grab his sneakers. He tossed one onto the mattress, pulling on the other with one hand.

“Is that a good idea?” He asked uncertainly, “You said the Seekers have Creator protocols.”

“That is a consideration.” Ratchet responded, “However, I believe the risk to be minimal. I will be actively monitoring you.”

Sam picked up his other sneaker, balancing against the gurney as he pulled it on. He mulled over Ratchet’s words for a long moment, and unable to think of a reason to protest, Sam shrugged in acquiescence.

“Well, whatever you think, I guess.” Sam said.

“I am of the opinion that you’re developing quickly. You need as much experience within a structured and controlled environment as possible.” Ratchet replied, “And of course, the more experience that you have with firewalling, the better.”

Sam groaned.

“Aw, c’mon Ratch.” He complained, “I had more than enough experience firewalling onboard the _Nemesis._ ”

Ratchet pinned him with an unimpressed stare.

“Your experiences on the _Nemesis_ notwithstanding, you require a great deal more practice than you’ve currently obtained.”

Sam exhaled slowly through his nose, lifting his shoulder in a resigned shrug.

“Alright, fine. Can it wait until tomorrow? I have to talk with my folks, and I don’t want the entire island to hear me get reamed out by my father.”

Ratchet’s expression did something complicated—his optic lenses spiraled down to points as his mouthplates tightened minutely—and he nodded in response.

“That is a prudent request.” He acknowledged, gruffly.

Sam sighed softly, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants, “Where are they?”

Ratchet’s optics became distant in a way that suggested he was looking for the answer to Sam’s question. After a moment, his gaze sharpened and settled on Sam again as he replied, “They are in their quarters. Red Alert informs me that they left briefly for their mid-day meal, but otherwise they have sequestered themselves since returning from the hangar.”

Sam could not keep the grimace off his face at the news. 

“Well, I had better get it over with. Procrastinating will only make things worse.”

“Would you like a drive? I am unable to leave my experiments, but I am certain that Hoist would be amenable.”

Sam shook his head minutely, “Thanks but no thanks, Ratch. I think I’d rather walk.”

Ratchet nodded in wordless acknowledgement, before extending a servo towards him. Sam steadied himself on Ratchet’s thumb as he stepped onto the medic’s palm. Large digits curled around his body as Sam was brought close to Ratchet’s chest. The medic strode across the hangar, his steps ringing across the large room, before stopping just in front of the bay doors. He stood there for a long moment, silent and inscrutable, before ex-venting a soft sigh. The sound was uncharacteristically solemn, and it caused Sam to glance up in confusion. Ratchet angled his helm to look down at him, his optics startlingly bright.

“Your father’s acceptance or denial of what has happened in no way affects the reality of who you are, Sam. I hope you will remember that, if the worst comes to pass.”

Sam’s throat closed up in an unexpected swell of emotion. He did not need the bond between them to understand Ratchet’s reassurance for what it was—an expression of his affection and regard. Unable to voice his appreciation, Sam pressed his palm flat against the medic’s chassis. The metal was smooth and warm beneath his skin, a sensation with which Sam was becoming intimately familiar. Although the medic spoke no further, he brushed the tips of his digits down the curve of Sam’s back. It was an uncharacteristically tender gesture, a show of support, and Sam leaned into his mental presence gratefully.

* * *

Sam stared at the apartment door for an interminable time, nerving himself up to ring the doorbell. Although he could feel Bumblebee’s quiet regard, overlaid with impressions of uncertainty and concern, Ratchet’s mental presence had receded from their bond completely. He opted not to dwell on that fact, instead taking another steadying breath as he thumbed the notification button on the card reader affixed to the wall beside the door. His heart drummed against his ribcage, and it took a concerted effort to keep his breathing steady and even. When his mother answered the door moments later, Sam didn’t know whether it was a torture or a relief.

“Hello Sammy.” She murmured, pulling him into a hug. Sam wrapped his arms around her torso, breathing in the smell of her.

“How’s Dad?” He asked quietly, cutting to the quick of the matter.

“We talked this morning and I told him everything.” She replied, pulling back to look Sam in the eyes, “He didn’t take it well.”

The trepidation in his gut sharpened to abject dread at the grimness of her tone. He hesitated for a moment before he forced himself to ask, “Will he see me?”

His mother’s eyes softened as her expression became unhappy.

“Of course he will.” She whispered fiercely, as though she were trying to convince Sam of the sincerity of her words, “Sammy, he’s your father.”

Sam was unable to keep the grimace off his face, “I know, Ma. Can I come in?”

His mother nodded, her face pale and drawn, as she stepped aside. As she opened the door wider for him, Sam caught sight of his father sitting in the recliner beside the reading nook. He was staring resolutely at the television, still in the same clothes that he had been wearing in the hangar. Sam stepped into the room, glancing at his mother as though to ask permission. When she inclined her head minutely, Sam ambled towards the couch.

“Hey Pops.”

“Three years.” His father replied, voice tight, without ever taking his eyes off the television, “You knew about all of this for almost three years, and you never thought to tell us.”

The flat tone of his father’s voice fanned the flames of Sam’s anxiety with a vengeance. He stepped around the corner of the couch, moving to sit down on the cushion nearest to the recliner. Sam clasped his hands tightly, resting his arms against his knees as he stared at the floor. Even if his father had not been focused on the television, Sam was unsure whether he could look him in the eye. 

“I thought about it all the time. I just didn’t know what to say.” Sam replied, softly.

“You didn’t know what to say?” His father repeated, his voice only just controlled, “How about starting with, ‘I’ve been infected with the energy of an alien artifact that’s made me functionally immortal’?”

Sam flinched as his father’s tone took on a caustic edge. His mother sat down beside him, murmuring an admonishment in his father’s direction.

“Yeah, I guess that would have been a good place to start.” Sam replied, trying for levity and falling flat. 

“Or maybe you could have mentioned that you _died_ while in the custody of people who said they would keep you safe. How about that?” His father snapped, ignoring Sam’s interjection completely.

Sam squeezed his hands together until the muscles in his forearms protested at the strain. He did not bother trying to defend himself, to explain the nuances of what had happened, because he was certain that his father would not care one whit about Ripcord’s fanatical beliefs or the extent of his betrayal.

“Were you ever going to tell us? If your mother hadn’t walked in on you and _him_ —“ His father spat the pronoun like a curse, “would you have said anything?”

Sam’s heart was pounding against his ribs now, and he struggled to keep his anguish off his face. He could hear the depth of emotion in his father’s voice—his rage, his despair, his bitter disappointment. It made Sam feel precariously afloat and unmoored. In desperation, he squeezed the thumb and forefinger of one hand into the tender flesh of his purlicue until he saw stars.

At once, the quiet thrum of _uncertainty-concern_ at the edge of his mind sharpened with alarm.

“I don’t know.” Sam replied softly, “I hope so.”

Bumblebee brushed over his mind, his touch feather-light and gentle. His mental presence had an entreating edge, imploring Sam without words. With conscious effort, Sam released his painful grip on his hand. 

“You hope—! You hope so.” His father repeated, turning to look in his direction for the first time since Sam arrived, “Well, I hope so too, Sam. I really do.”

“Ron, you promised.” His mother snapped.

His father looked at her, raising his shoulders in an affected gesture of indifference.

“There’ve been a lot of broken promises here, Judy.”

“Dad, this wasn’t exactly easy for me.” Sam said, voice strained, “I’m sure it was hard to hear about it, but I experienced it. I was alone and I was scared—I did the best I could.”

His father’s expression twisted in a complicated rush of emotion that passed too quickly for Sam to decipher.

“You wouldn’t have been alone if Prime hadn’t taken you away from us.”

The condemnation in his father’s voice was thick enough to choke on, and Sam flushed hotly in response.

“It wasn’t Optimus’ fault, Dad.”

“Don’t you dare defend him.” His father snapped, and the abject rage in his voice caused Sam to jerk back in surprise, “He promised me to do good by you, Sam. _He promised me._ He took you away to save your life, and it was all for nothing.”

“Dad.” Sam murmured, aghast, “It wasn’t all for nothing.”

“Don’t say that!” Ron bellowed, pushing himself to his feet. He began to pace the small room, his face flushed crimson with anger, “All of this— _all of it_ —was to protect you, Sam. That was the point of everything. The grief and the separation and the uncertainty. Prime was supposed to keep you safe from the Decepticons—that was the deal.” His father stopped in mid-stride, turning to stare at him. His expression was stricken, equal parts grieved and infuriated, “Optimus Prime promised me that he would take care of you. Look at you now—“ His father gestured towards him sharply, “You look like a concentration camp survivor.”

“Ron.” His mother warned sharply, taking one of Sam’s hands into her own. His father stared at them for a long moment and then something in his expression broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head minutely.

“Prime promised me that you would be okay.” His father muttered, wretchedly, “He promised me.”

All at once, Sam realized that his father’s rage and bitterness were not directed at him. The knowledge made something unclench inside of him, and Sam’s trepidation softened with compassion. He let go of his mother’s hand, standing up and stepping around the coffee table. Sam approached his father slowly, cautiously. 

“Dad, I’m okay.” Sam said, and when his father narrowed his eyes at him, he clarified, “Or at least, I will be.”

“Don’t do that.” His father snapped, “Don’t act strong. Don’t act like everything’s okay.”

Sam stepped towards his father, lifting one shoulder in a weak shrug.

“I didn’t say that everything’s okay. I said that _I’ll_ be okay, and I will.” He replied simply.

His father squeezed his eyes shut at his words.

“Sam—“

“It’s true, Dad. I’ll be okay.”

His father made a raw sound, and his expression twisted in desperation, “Maybe you’ll be okay this time, Sam. What about next time? And the time after that? You are caught up in something so much bigger than yourself.”

“I know, Dad.” Sam murmured, “And maybe I don’t know what will happen the next time the Decepticons attack, but I do know that I’m safer here than anywhere else.”

His father barked a harsh laugh, “How can you say that? One of Prime’s own people killed you.”

“Ripcord wasn’t an Autobot.”

“Autobots, Decepticons—Sam, listen to yourself! They are aliens who have been fighting a bloody civil war since the _Pliocene_ , for Christ’s sake.” Ron’s said, his voice sharpening with earnestness, “You are in way over your head.”

Sam sighed softly.

“Yeah, Dad, I know, but that doesn’t change anything.”

Ron’s eyes flitted over Sam’s face, desperate and searching.

“Sam, listen to me. These mechanoids… they sound like us and they act like us, but that’s all it is. An act.” His father’s voice had gone low and imploring, “Prime and Bumblebee and your doctor, they can take human form, but they aren’t human.”

Sam raised his hands to clasp the older man by the shoulders. He returned his father’s gaze, resolute and earnest.

“Dad, whether they’re human doesn’t matter. They’re still people—and now they’re my people.” Sam replied, before giving his father’s shoulders a squeeze, “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m also your son.”

Ron’s face twisted with grief, and in the nakedness of his expression, Sam could see his father’s fear, his uncertainty, his bitter loss. Without a word of warning, Sam found himself drawn into a hug. His father clutched him against his chest so tightly that Sam could feel the thundering pace of his heartbeat. He raised his hands and hugged him back.

“I’ll be okay, Dad.” Sam murmured into the cotton of his father’s shirt, “I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

At his words, Ron’s grip tightened around him. They stood there, holding each other in silence, until his father had regained some control over his emotions. Then he stepped back, giving Sam’s shoulders a squeeze, and returned to his chair by the reading nook. Sam watched him go, confused by the feeling of loss that lodged itself in his chest, before he returned to his spot on the couch. His mother stared at him in silence, her eyes shining with emotion, before she turned and picked up the remote. A moment later, she flipped through channels until she found a re-run of _Cheers_. They sat together, all three of them staring at the television without speaking, as the sound of quippy one-liners and canned laughter filled the silence. His mother moved closer to him, taking his hand into her lap once again. He turned to look at her, letting his appreciation and affection show on his face. She smiled back at him in understanding. After _Cheers_ was over, they sat through two episodes of _Seinfeld_. When that was over, the voice-over announced that an episode of _M.A.S.H._ was next on the docket. His mother picked up the remote, turning off the television with a flick of a button.

“I am just famished. Let’s get an early supper.”

His father grunted disapprovingly, “Judy, it’s barely five o’clock.”

“I’m hungry, Ron.” She replied, and Sam recognized the tightening of her tone from a childhood filled with stern lectures, “Go change.”

Thirty minutes later, Sam found himself standing in line at the mess hall. The large room was filled with the contented clinking of dishware and the low buzz of conversation. His mother pushed a tray along the galley in front of him, commenting on the quality and quantity of available options (“Sam, don’t get the pasta salad. It looks like it’s been out awhile.”) while Sam winced apologetically at the soldiers standing ready to serve them. His father followed a short distance away, silent and introspective. Although Ron had barely spoken in the two hours since their talk, some of the hardness had left his eyes and shoulders. It was a fact for which Sam was quietly grateful.

After Sam paid for their meals, they found a table near the registers. His mother and father sat side by side, while Sam sat across the table from them both. As his mother made her way through her roast chicken dinner, she regaled him with news about their lives over the last two years. Sam learned that the United Kingdom had been a boring place to live, after the novelty had worn off. Their house had been cold and damp and smelled like wet dog, no matter what his mother had done about it. Arizona had been a better place to live so far. Although it was equally boring, the climate had been more to his mother’s liking. It was closer to Nana White too, and the Special Forces detail that had been assigned to them had allowed his parents to visit her occasionally. Nana White was doing well, Sam was told, although her hip had been bothering her since Thanksgiving. 

Sam listened to it all in silence, a half smile curling the corner of his mouth. When they finished eating, he gathered up their trays and dirty dishes, and made his way over to the waste receptacles. He scrapped plates, stacked cups, and stowed the trays as he waited for his mother and father to catch up. When his parents finally meandered across the large room, they made their way out of the mess hall together. The North Quad was relatively busy, given the dinner hour, and Sam returned the nods and polite greetings that he received as they walked. By the time that the third uniformed officer had inclined her head respectfully, his mother turned a sunny smile in his direction.

“I think that’s so nice, Sammy.” She said, loudly enough that Sam was sure the retreating officer must have heard her. Sam winced his eyes shut.

“Ma, lower your voice.”

“I’m just saying that it’s nice is all.” She repeated obliviously, “They’re treating you like the President.”

“They’re treating him like an Ambassador.” His father replied dryly, the first words that he had spoken since they had left the apartment. Sam glanced at him in surprise, and his father lifted a shoulder in a shrug, “That’s the point of all this, right?”

Sam nodded slowly, trying to control the swell of relief that he felt, “Yeah. It is.”

His father grunted in response, and the three of them fell into a companionable silence. By the time that they reached his parents’ apartment ten minutes later, Sam felt cautious optimism blooming through him. He kissed his mother on the cheek as his father pressed the visitor’s badge against the card reader by the door. The light on the device blinked green as the door unlocked with an electronic-sounding _click_.

“I will see you both tomorrow, alright?” Sam asked.

His mother nodded, smoothing her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Let’s get breakfast together and go for a walk before it gets too hot.”

“Yeah, sure Ma. That sounds nice. I’ll show you Marianne Point—it’s down past the airfield, and it’s really nice.”

“That sounds lovely, Sammy. Get some sleep, okay?” She asked, giving his hands a squeeze.

“Sure, Ma.” He replied dryly.

“And maybe shave. An Ambassador shouldn’t have a five o’clock shadow.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but his father spoke before he could reply.

“Don’t fuss at him, Judy. He can shave when he wants to shave.” His father said, taking his wife by the elbow, “Let him get going.”

His mother made an exasperated noise, but she stepped forward and gave Sam a hug good-bye all the same. A moment later, his parents disappeared into the apartment, the door shutting quietly behind them. Sam stood in the corridor for a long while, staring at the door in silence, before he turned on his heel and headed towards his own apartment. As he walked, he thought about the confrontation with his father. Sam thought that he understood the nature of his father’s concern now. While the injuries that he had sustained had spurred his father’s angst, they had not caused it. His father was scared and angry and bitter to be losing his only son, in a way that had nothing to do with their separation. Sam was slipping deeper into a world that his father knew nothing about—one with which Sam had become intimately familiar in his absence.

As Sam pressed his identification badge against the card reader beside his door, he sighed softly. It wasn’t his father’s fault that he couldn’t begin to comprehend Sam’s altered circumstances. Sam barely understood it himself. He stepped into his apartment, letting the door swing shut behind him. He toed off his sneakers, dropping his cell phone and badge onto the stand beside the entryway. As he made his way towards the bathroom, he wondered, not for the first time, what Bumblebee saw in him. The scout was superior to him in every conceivable way—he was more intelligent, faster, stronger, longer lived. He could calculate trajectories and battle maneuvers in a fraction of a second. He was more durable, less prone to injury, easier to repair. He was also more experienced, having spent countless years traveling through space. He must have seen things that Sam couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Sam huffed softly as he flushed the toilet, making his way over to the sink. As he washed his hands, he felt a pang of remorse that was born from insecurity. Unbidden, Knock Out’s words from several days ago came back to him. Had Bumblebee gotten himself shacked up with a human? Would he have made that choice of his own volition, given the opportunity?

As Sam stepped out of the bathroom a moment later, warm arms wrapped around his torso. He yelped loudly in surprise, nearly jumping out of his skin as Bumblebee’s holoform pressed against his back.

“Yes, I would have.” He murmured, kissing the nape of Sam’s neck.

“Jesus, Bumblebee, you almost gave me a heart attack!” Sam snapped, twisting to look at his bonded, “You would have what?"

“Yes, I would have chosen you, given the opportunity.” Bumblebee repeated, his teeth scraping the tender flesh at the junction of Sam’s neck and shoulder. The sensation sent shivers through his body, and Sam made a soft noise in response. 

“I told you once that you are the person that I care about most in my life.” Bumblebee continued, pulling the collar of Sam’s shirt aside so that he could press a kiss into the skin of his upper back, “Surely you realize by now that was not hyperbole.”

Sam swallowed around the emotion that tightened his throat. He remembered that conversation with the clarity born of painful self-flagellation. It had been after Optimus had died and they were hiding in the abandoned factory with Mikaela and Leo. Sam had wanted to turn himself in, and Bumblebee had talked him out of it. It had been before he was resurrected in the Egyptian desert, before he had on-lined in the medical bay, and before the bond had blossomed to life between them.

“You may be smaller and younger and less experienced than I am, but in no way does that make you inferior.” Bumblebee murmured against Sam’s skin, “You can improvise and adapt in ways that I cannot. You are also braver and more resilient than I am. You experience the world with a clarity of perception that is both remarkable and refreshing.” Bumblebee’s hands settled on his hips, and with gentle pressure, he turned Sam around to face him, “Above all else, I am in awe of your inherent goodness, your steadfast optimism, which not even Megatron could tarnish.” The holoform pressed the palms of his hands against the sides of Sam’s face, his gaze serious and entreating.

“I would choose you over all the others in the universe, Sam.” He continued sincerely, “Because you are mine and I am yours. We were always meant to be together.”

Sam’s expression softened with affection, “Yeah. Yeah, we were.”

Bumblebee hummed in agreement, leaning forward to press a kiss against Sam’s lips as he walked them towards the bed. Sam kissed him briefly, before pulling away to flash a lopsided grin.

“Am I misreading the situation, or are you about to get me off?”

Bumblebee snorted loudly, reaching out one hand to shove him sharply backwards. Sam landed flat against the mattress with a laugh, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He pulled the offending material off over his head and tossed it away without a second thought. Bumblebee stared down at him for a long moment, his expression a complicated mixture of emotion, before he climbed onto the bed beside him. The holoform propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand trailing over Sam’s chest. As the pads of his fingertips brushed over Sam’s nipple, Bumblebee leaned down to capture his mouth in a deep kiss. Sam groaned softly as the holoform licked into his mouth, the press of his lips heated and urgent.

Bumblebee shifted, and then he mouthed along Sam’s jaw, pressing wet kisses into his skin. Sam arched his neck, moving to give the holoform better access. He felt a faint pulse of approval from across their bond, and then Bumblebee laved the skin of his neck with lips and tongue. At the same time, he flicked Sam’s nipple with the pads of his fingers. It was a feather-light touch, gentler than Bumblebee had ever played with his nipples before, but it sent a jolt of sensation straight through him. Sam whimpered softly, shifting against the mattress as his cock began to thicken. Bumblebee repeated the motion, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the pert flesh. It caused familiar heat to pool low in Sam’s groin, as his cock twitched in his pants.

“Not to, uh, tell you your business.” Sam gasped, breathlessly, “But are we getting naked any time in the near future?”

Bumblebee pulled back slightly to regard him, his expression edged with amusement.

“Be patient.”

Sam groaned softly, letting his head fall back against the mattress, “Not my forte right now.”

The holoform laughed lightly, before bending back to task. He kissed along Sam’s clavicle, the hallow of his throat, across his pectoral muscles—all the while, he flicked Sam’s nipples until they hardened into pebbled nubs. Each stroke of his fingers over the sensitized flesh went straight to Sam’s cock, until he was panting helplessly with need. Before Sam could beg, however, Bumblebee laved one nipple with his tongue and then sucked the hardened flesh into his mouth.

Sam could not repress the whimper that stuttered out of him as Bumblebee worked him with lips and tongue and teeth. He reached for the fly of his pants, desperate to get some pressure against his cock. To his surprise, Bumblebee did not stop him. Instead, the holoform moved to suck Sam’s other nipple into his mouth. Sam unfastened his pants and shimmied out of the material as quickly as he was able. It was only after he was completely naked and Bumblebee still hadn’t admonished him that Sam hesitated, uncertain. 

“Go on then.” Bumblebee murmured, his voice little more than a brush of warm air against the skin of Sam’s chest, “Let me see you touch yourself.”

Sam groaned softly, the arousal in Bumblebee’s voice almost undoing him. He took himself in hand, lightly stroking his erection. He started as he always did, his touch light but firm as he moved up and down his length. He paused occasionally to sweep his thumb over the head of his cock, gathering the precum that had beaded there. Eventually he began to stroke himself faster, his grip tightening as familiar heat coiled in his groin. The entire time that Sam masturbated, Bumblebee sucked one nipple while his fingers worked the other. The riot of sensation—Bumblebee’s mouth, his tongue, his nails against pebbled flesh—brought Sam to the edge of orgasm in moments. Before he could tip over, however, Bumblebee raised his head and grasped Sam’s wrist, stilling him.

“Stop.”

Sam stared at him incredulously, “What? Why?”

In lieu of a reply, Bumblebee sat up and pushed Sam’s legs further apart. The holoform crawled over him, settling in the space between Sam’s knees. Sam stared up at him in breathless anticipation—his cock was painfully hard now and twitching against his belly. Bumblebee smoothed his hands down Sam’s flanks and over his thighs, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into trembling flesh. It was only after Sam had calmed down, no longer at the brink of orgasm, that Bumblebee grasped his straining erection. Sam groaned quietly, the softness of Bumblebee’s palm an exquisite counterbalance to the firmness of his grip. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Bumblebee began to stroke him. The strokes were short and brief, staying well away from the weeping head of Sam’s cock. It was pleasure and frustration and sweet agony, and it was not long before Sam bucked his hips up in desperation.

As though he had been waiting for Sam to move, Bumblebee pressed his hand into Sam’s hip, pinning him to the mattress as he took the head of Sam’s cock in his mouth. Sam moaned, low in his throat, as he rucked the blankets up in his fists. Unlike the other times that he had given him fellatio, however, Bumblebee did not swallow him down. Instead, he sucked lightly at the head of his dick, tongue flicking over his slit as he gently pumped the base of his erection.

“Bumblebee.” Sam choked, barely able to get the word out around his burning arousal, “Please.”

Rather than reply, Bumblebee took more of Sam’s cock into his mouth and then he _hummed_. Sam went from painfully aroused to rock fucking hard in an instant. He tried to thrust up, desperate to get more of Bumblebee’s mouth on him, but the holoform held him down. Sam was sure that there would be bruises on his hips in the morning. Eventually, Bumblebee took Sam’s cock out of his mouth altogether. Sam whined helplessly at the loss of sensation, but before he could protest any further, Bumblebee pinned him with a considerate look.

“Have you ever fingered yourself?” He asked, matter-of-factly, “Or asked Mikaela to do so?”

Sam stared up at him, dumbfounded.

“What?” He managed.

“As I have said before, I have limited knowledge of what you have experimented with in the past.” Bumblebee replied patiently, stroking the full length of Sam’s cock, “Have you ever fingered yourself?”

Sam blushed crimson all the way to the roots of his hair.

“Wh—no, I haven’t.” He stammered, equal parts embarrassed and taken aback. Bumblebee nodded considerately, as though this information had come as no surprise.

“I would like to.” Bumblebee replied, his gaze suddenly shrewd and assessing, “Do you object?”

Sam stared at him, unable to reply. He had never given that part of his anatomy any thought during sex before, and it took him a minute to wrap his mind around the notion. Painfully aware of the heat suffusing his face, Sam repeated, slowly, “You want to finger me.”

“I would, yes.” Bumblebee replied, continuing to stroke Sam’s erection, “If it makes you uncomfortable, we need not speak of it again.”

Sam frowned faintly, mulling over Bee’s words. Although he had never seriously considered the idea of anal play in the past, it would be untrue to say that the thought had never crossed his mind. After a long moment, he nodded slowly.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam replied, “What do I do?”

Bumblebee’s expression warmed minutely, as though he were amused by Sam’s reply.

“Nothing. Relax and let me do this for you. I have every reason to believe that you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Sam nodded again, and Bumblebee’s hand disappeared from around his cock. A moment later, he heard the sound of a plastic cap being opened. He glanced down in confusion, only for his expression to morph into one of surprised disbelief. Bumblebee was kneeling between Sam’s legs, a bottle of lubricant in one hand and a determined look on his face.

“You have _lube_?” Sam blurted, incredulously, “How long have you been carrying that around?”

Bumblebee’s expression turned wry as he applied a generous amount of lubricant to one hand.

“The Internet is very specific about the importance of preparation for anal play.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Sam replied, just as wryly.

The corners of Bumblebee’s lips curled up as he purred, “No, it doesn’t, does it?”

Before Sam could reply, Bumblebee drizzled lubricant over his erection and began stroking him in earnest. He groaned softly, letting his head fall back against the mattress. For all that Bumblebee’s handjobs had been enjoyable in the past, this was another thing entirely—the slick glide of Bee’s hand over his cock, the lubricant warmed by the heat of Sam’s body. It was an embarrassingly short amount of time before Sam was squirming against the mattress, reduced to making incoherent sounds of pleasure.

A moment later, Sam felt the tip of Bumblebee’s finger stroke along his perineum. The touch was firm, igniting little sparks of pleasure within him. Without faltering his grip on Sam’s erection in the slightest, Bumblebee shifted his position, and then the tip of his finger was teasing the entrance to Sam’s body. Sam tensed instinctively, but Bumblebee moved no further. He stayed there, rubbing gentle circles against Sam’s tight hole until he finally relaxed. As soon as the nervous tension left his body, Bumblebee’s mental presence bumped against him. It was an inquiring gesture, and Sam understood at once what the scout was asking.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Go ahead.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the tip of Bumblebee’s finger breached his body. It was a strange sensation, although not unpleasant. Bumblebee pressed forward slowly, letting Sam adjust to the unfamiliar feeling—all the while, the holoform continued to stroke Sam’s cock. Bumblebee withdrew his finger before pushing back in once again. He repeated this motion several times, and then Sam felt a second finger join the first. The stretch was deeper this time, the feeling of fullness more pronounced. Bumblebee thrust several times, synchronizing the hand on his cock and the fingers in his ass, until Sam was moaning loudly. Then, Bumblebee crooked the tips of his fingers, brushing against something that caused a white-hot jolt of pleasure to surge through him. Sam spasmed and cried out, his hips jerking up of their own accord. He was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s satisfaction, but he could barely pay attention to it over the sordid litany that was pouring out of his mouth.

“Bumblebee, please, _ohmygod_ , please, more.” He begged, shamelessly, his hands twisting in the blankets, “That feels so good, you feel so good, please don’t stop, please— _fuck!”_

Bumblebee began to move his fingers in earnest, brushing against the sensitive spot deep inside him with every thrust. At the same time, he learned forward and swallowed Sam’s weeping cock all the way to the root. The holoform bobbed against him, his mouth moving in tandem with the fingers inside of Sam’s ass. When Bumblebee twisted his hand to press against his prostrate again, the pleasure overwhelmed him. Sam bucked up and screamed as he came, every muscle in his body tensing at once. As the force of his release pulsed up and out of him, Bumblebee swallowed around him. The fingers in his ass slowed and then stopped all together as the last tremors of Sam’s orgasm shuddered through him.

The only sound in the room was Sam’s loud, gasping breaths. Bumblebee withdrew his hand, causing Sam to flinch in response, before the holoform learned forward to kiss him deeply. The faint taste of his semen in Bumblebee’s mouth barely phased him, and Sam kissed the holoform back weakly. Bumblebee laid down beside him, pressing his forehead against the side of Sam’s face.

“Thank-you.” Bumblebee murmured, and Sam was confused by the raw quality of his voice.

“ _You’re_ thanking _me_?” Sam asked, incredulously, once he was capable of speaking. The disbelief in his voice seemed to surprise his bonded, who laughed quietly in response.

“I am.” Bee replied, tugging at him meaningfully. Sam obliged him, rolling over to settle his head against the holoform’s chest.

“Yeah, well, you can ‘thank me’ any time you want. Consider this a standing invitation.”

Bumblebee huffed another laugh, wrapping his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Sam pressed closer to the holoform, nuzzling his nose against the side of his neck. Sam could feel a fierce swell of affection spill over their bond in response, startling in its intensity. 

“Mm, right back at you.” Sam murmured, drowsiness plucking at the edges of his consciousness. Bumblebee angled his head to glance down at him, before shifting to pull the edge of the blanket over Sam’s body. Sam hummed in appreciation, snuggling closer to the holoform. He was warm and comfortable, relaxed in that full-bodied way that only a mind-blowing orgasm could achieve.

 _//Rest. I’ll be here when you wake.//_ Bumblebee murmured at him, his voice like a promise.

Sam sighed softly, letting his eyes flutter closed. He laid there like that, wrapped in blankets and Bumblebee’s tight embrace, as he drifted into a light doze—all thoughts of his father and their argument the furthest things from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **UPDATE** : If you are so interested, you can read Bumblebee's viewpoint of this chapter as a [Vignettes chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649654/chapters/55542973).


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for the love and support that you gave for the last chapter. It was the most ever kudos and bookmarks that I received for any given update. I appreciate you guys more than I can describe! 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings** : Minor flashback to trauma. Panic attack.

Sam woke slowly, reluctantly, to the feeling of warm hands stroking up and down his back. He groaned in protest, rolling over and pulling the covers up to his shoulders. Behind him, Bumblebee chuckled softly and shifted closer to him. He slid one hand down Sam’s side to settle against his bare hip.

“Time to get up.”

Sam made a discontented sound and burrowed his face into the pillow. Bumblebee squeezed his hipbone meaningfully, giving him a little shake.

“Judy has been calling you.”

Sam squinted his eyes open, turning to glance over his shoulder at the holoform. Bumblebee was lying propped up on one elbow, half under the blankets, with an amused expression on his face.

“What time is it?”

“It’s just after eight.”

“At night?”

Bumblebee laughed lightly, “No, in the morning.”

Sam groaned softly, dropping his head onto the pillow as he rolled onto his back. It seemed impossible that he had slept for over twelve hours. He felt weary and tired, as though he had just fallen to sleep. He raised a hand and rubbed the grit out of his eyes, before turning to look at the holoform.

“I’ll make you a deal: let me sleep for another couple of days and then I’ll go hang with my folks.”

In the dim light cast by the bedside lamp, Sam could see Bumblebee’s lips quirk up. The holoform leaned down until his mouth was scant inches away from Sam’s own, before he murmured, “Here’s my counteroffer—get up and get dressed, and I won’t tell Judy that you’re ignoring her calls.”

Sam couldn’t help the grin that split his face as he replied, matter-of-factly, “Snitches get stitches, Bee.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” The holoform replied dryly, before he reached down and twitched the blankets off Sam’s body, “Go on.”

Sam groaned as the cocoon of warmth disappeared and cool, bedroom air washed over him. Unable to see an alternative, Sam sat up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He yanked the throw blanket off the foot of the bed and draped it around his shoulders. Then he pushed himself to his feet and padded towards the closet, pulling open the doors and rummaging inside. As he pulled out his long-sleeved Henley, he stared at the material considerately before turning to look at his bonded.

“Is it supposed to be hot today?” He asked, before amending, “Any hotter than usual, I mean.”

Bee pushed himself up into a sitting position as he replied, “It’s raining, actually. The island is under a severe weather advisory.”

Sam tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in thought, “I remember you saying something about a storm. Was it a tropical cyclone?”

“The remnants of a tropical depression.”

“Well that’s too bad.” Sam replied, kicking the closet doors closed, “I told my folks I’d take them to Marianne Point. What’s the forecast?”

“Scattered rain showers this morning, total precipitation amounts of one to two inches expected, changing to severe thunderstorms this afternoon. Potential hazards include high winds, intense downpours, and lightning. Rough surf is also expected.”

Sam ambled across the bedroom to stand in front of the holoform. 

“That sounds awesome. Want to go watch?”

Bumblebee’s face softened with affection. He reached out both hands, pushing the blanket aside, to settle his palms over Sam’s hips.

“We can go for a drive before the worst of the storm arrives, certainly. After the island has been placed under a severe weather warning, however, we will be ordered back to base.”

Sam’s lips quirked up in a smile, “Prowl and Red Alert aren’t joking around, huh?”

Bumblebee chuckled, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into the skin of Sam’s abdomen, “Do they ever?”

“Prowl’s a nice guy, but he has the sense of humor of a toaster oven.” Sam agreed good-naturedly, “It must have been a blast on the _Trion_ with him and Ultra Magnus. I’m amazed that Roddy didn’t throw himself out of an airlock.”

“It was a near thing, I’m sure.” Bee replied dryly, before giving Sam’s hips another meaningful squeeze, “Go shower. Your mother has started texting you.”

When Sam didn’t move, Bumblebee tilted his head expectantly. In the low light of the bedroom, his blue eyes looked storm-gray. Sam swallowed and stepped closer to him, a flush spreading across his cheeks. Bumblebee’s expression sharpened knowingly and he sat up straighter, pulling Sam to stand in the space between his legs.

“Bee…” Sam began, and he was embarrassed to hear the shyness in his voice, “I wanted you to know that I enjoyed it. Last night, I mean. It was… nice.”

By the time that Sam had finished speaking, his flush had deepened to a rosy red. It was always more difficult to discuss sexual matters when he wasn’t either horny as hell or in post-orgasm bliss. Bumblebee did not seem to mind his ineloquence, however, for his expression softened in understanding. He shifted forward, stroking his palms up and down Sam’s sides. The feeling of his hands on Sam’s body was soothing, grounding, and he leaned into the touch.

“I am glad. It was enjoyable for me as well.”

Sam quirked a smile at him, “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to leave you high and dry.”

Bumblebee’s expression became distant in the manner that suggested he was researching the colloquialism. After a moment, his features brightened with amusement. 

“Not at all, Sam.” Bumblebee reassured him, “I dare say I enjoyed the experience every bit as much as you did.”

Sam’s smile deepened, spreading across his face as he pressed against the holoform, “Well, then. My parents can wait another twenty minutes for breakfast, if you’re interested?”

His tone was equal parts suggestive and hopeful, but before Bumblebee could reply, Ratchet’s voice cut through his mind like a scythe.

_//Perhaps you are unaware of the fact that when you do not respond to your mother, she begins to pester me. I am neither your answering machine nor your personal assistant.//_

Sam jerked away from Bumblebee in surprise, his blush deepening to a brilliant vermillion. Bumblebee looked taken aback for a fraction of a second, and then his face twisted with understanding.

 _//Ratchet!//_ Sam snapped, embarrassed and aghast, _//Do you mind?//_

Sam felt, rather than heard, the medic’s snort.

 _//Is that a serious inquiry?//_ He asked, his voice as dry and cool as the Gobi desert. _//Because yes, I mind having my experiments interrupted for the last hour—albeit not as much as I mind gaining first-hand knowledge that your species is, evidentially, insatiable.//_

Sam slowly closed his eyes, letting his head fall back in mortification. After a long moment, he managed, lowly, “Mercy kill me right now.”

Bumblebee made a sympathetic sound before _nudging_ Sam through their bond.

“Go shower. I’ll let your mother know that you’ll be along shortly.”

Sam stepped away from the holoform, walking around the bed and into the bathroom without another word. He withdrew as far away from Ratchet as the Creator bond would allow, doing his best to keep his embarrassment to himself. After he used the bathroom, he pulled the shower curtain aside and turned the nozzle to his desired temperature. As the water heated up, he opened the linen closet and grabbed a towel and a facecloth. Dropping the towel onto the floor, Sam stepped into the shower. The water was just this side of uncomfortably hot—just the way that he liked it—and he soaped up as quickly as possible. After he rinsed off, he shampooed his hair and then stood in the hot stream for a long while, letting the water cascade over his back. After an interminable time, he felt the Creator bond _shiver_ impatiently in his mind. With a wry twist of his lips, Sam shut off the water and pulled the shower curtain aside. 

Grabbing the towel off the floor, he crossed the room towards the counter. Sam dried off quickly and perfunctorily, and as a result, he was still dripping water when he pulled on his clothing. He draped the wet towel around his neck, pulling open the bathroom door as he grabbed his toothbrush. All at once, he could hear his mother’s voice coming from the living room. Resisting the urge to wince, Sam padded into the doorway of his bedroom—and then he stopped dead in his tracks.

His mother and father were sitting on his couch. Bumblebee’s holoform was standing a short distance away, his arms folded comfortably over his chest. Beside him stood Ratchet, who was engaged in a discussion with his parents. His mother was smiling at the holoform, every evidence of enjoyment on her face. His father, to Sam’s surprise, seemed interested in what the holoform was saying.

“Uh… good morning.” He said, slowly, gesturing to the assembled group with his toothbrush, “So, what’s this all about?”

“Good morning, Sam.” Ratchet replied dryly, “Nice of you to finally join us. I wasn’t sure whether you were ever going to get out of bed.”

Sam felt himself flush in embarrassment at the backhanded remark. Before he could reply, however, his mother laughed lightly.

“Oh, I know! Isn’t he awful?” She said, oblivious to Ratchet’s sarcasm or Sam’s mortification, “He used to sleep in until noon on the weekends—Ron actually had to pull him out of bed on more than one occasion.”

Ron made a wry sound in response—not a laugh, but not a scoff either—as he turned to look at his son. As soon as he saw the look on Sam’s face, however, his expression stilled, becoming pointed. After a long moment, his father sighed and shook his head in resignation.

“Go brush your teeth, Sam. I need a coffee.”

Taken aback by the note of dry exasperation in his father’s tone, Sam nodded slowly, “Yeah, sure Pops. I’ll just be a minute.”

As he turned to step back into his bedroom, he glanced in Bumblebee’s direction. The holoform was watching him closely, and when they made eye contact, he raised his shoulders in a shrug that clearly conveyed his surprise. Mulling over his father’s unexpected reaction, Sam made his way towards the bathroom and brushed his teeth. After he rinsed out his mouth and tossed his towel in the hamper, he made his way back into the living room. Although Ratchet and Bumblebee had not moved from where they stood, his parents had gotten off the couch to wait beside the door. As soon as she spotted him, his mother made an impatient sound.

“Sammy, come on. It’s almost nine. They won’t have anything left by the time we get there.”

“It’s a mess hall, Judy. They’ll have plenty to eat.” His father replied, the same edge of dry humor in his voice. His mother scoffed softly, swatting at his father with the back of her hand. The sight of them, bickering goodheartedly with each other, made Sam’s throat close up in emotion. He stood there for a long moment, just taking in the sight of them. Then, swallowing down the enormity of what he was feeling, Sam made his way towards the door and retrieved his shoes. He leaned against the narrow desk, pulling on the sneakers before grabbing his identification badge.

To Sam’s surprise, both Bumblebee and Ratchet accompanied them to the mess hall. His mother chatted happily with the medic as they walked—or rather, she talked at length and Ratchet listened without complaint. To his credit, whenever she asked a question, he answered her without any trace of sarcasm in his voice. His father walked at her side, listening to the conversation without adding anything himself. Bumblebee and Sam walked together, trailing a short distance behind them. When his mother asked another question, this time about the medical corps, Sam _nudged_ Bumblebee through their bond.

_//Do you want to take bets on whether this is physically uncomfortable for him?//_

Bumblebee glanced sidelong at him, his expression one of mild amusement.

_//The conversation with your mother?//_

_//No—well, I mean, yes, but I meant how he’s not being sarcastic.//_

Ratchet glanced over his shoulder in Sam’s direction, his expression pointed and unimpressed. Sam grinned at him unrepentantly, pushing his hands into his pockets. As Ratchet turned back towards his mother, Sam felt the spark-bond _brighten_ with amusement.

He glanced sidelong at Bumblebee, unable to resist asking in a deadpan voice, _//Should we get him a sympathy card?//_

Ratchet’s irritation flashed through their bond, and a moment later, Sam was rewarded with a sharp mental _rap_ across his mind. Although the admonishment stung more so than any of Ratchet’s previous mental discipline, Sam couldn’t help the laugh that choked out of him. He raised a hand to his head, rubbing at his temple with his fingers, and pulsed a wordless—albeit not entirely sincere—apology at the medic. Without turning to look at him, Ratchet snorted in response.

As predicted, the mess hall had an abundance of food remaining despite the late morning hour. Sam and his parents queued in the short line at the galley, moving their tray along the stainless steel counter as they selected their breakfast. The smells wafting from the large silver trays set behind the sneeze guard had a stimulating effect on Sam’s appetite. By the time that they paid for their meals and found a seat across the hall, his stomach was pinching with hunger. Sam ate voraciously, working through his breakfast wrap and home fries before his parents had put a dent into their meals. By the time that he started on the apple cinnamon muffin, he felt a restraining touch in his mind. Sam glanced up, meeting Ratchet’s gaze. The holoform was watching him closely from his spot beside his mother. He could tell that the medic was not irritated with him for his earlier remark by the note of _exasperation_ and _amusement_ across their bond.

_//Although I am heartened by your appetite, you should at least attempt to chew your food. I have no desire to test the efficacy of the Heimlich maneuver this morning.//_

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord and he asked, without thinking, “Did you just make a joke?”

Both his mother and his father turned to look at him, taken aback by Sam’s apparent non-sequitur. Sam felt a flush creep across his face as he realized that he had answered Ratchet’s non-verbal comment out loud. His mother frowned at him, confused.

“What, Sammy?”

He was saved from stammering through an explanation by Ratchet himself. The medic turned his head to regard his parents and said, matter-of-factly, “I was advising your son to chew his food.”

Understanding dawned on his mother’s face and she asked, curiously, “Through the ...Creator bond?”

“Yes.” Ratchet replied without elaboration.

His mother hummed considerately before she turned to look at Sam. At the sight of his nearly empty plate, her expression became disapproving, “You do eat too quickly, Sammy. It’s bad for your digestion.”

“My digestion is fine, Ma.” He replied, equal parts embarrassed and relieved.

“It’ll give you gas.” She continued, shaking her head as she speared a piece of fruit with her fork.

“Ma. Stop.”

“Or diarrhea.” 

“Ma, I’m begging you, please stop talking.” Sam groaned, at the same time that his father said, “Judy, stop.”

His mother glanced between the two of them, raising her shoulders in a shrug, “You don’t have room to talk, Ron. You could clear out a truck stop.” 

His father made an exasperated sound and leaned towards her, “You’re embarrassing him.”

She snorted loudly in response, “No, I’m not. Am I embarrassing you, Sammy?” Before Sam could reply in the affirmative, his mother continued, “See? Besides, Ratchet and Bumblebee don’t mind. Do you?”

Ratchet made a permissive gesture with his hand, “By all means.”

Sam made an irritated sound in the back of his throat and stood up, “And that’s my cue. Bumblebee, want to head out now? Before I have a nervous breakdown?”

“Where are you going?” His mother asked, pouring more creamer into her coffee.

“Out to watch the storm.” Sam replied, pushing his chair into the table.

“That sounds dangerous.” She said disapprovingly, “Don’t get too close to the water.”

“I’ll be fine, Ma.”

“Make good decisions.”

“I will.” Sam replied, gathering up his napkins and utensils. As he headed towards the trash receptacles, he waved good-bye over his shoulder. Bumblebee fell into step beside him, posture loose and relaxed. After Sam binned the remainder of his breakfast and stowed his tray, they made their way into the corridor.

They walked the length of one long hallway before Sam said, as much to himself as to Bumblebee, “He seems in a better mood this morning.”

“He does.” The holoform replied, diplomatically.

“I’m glad.” Sam admitted.

Bumblebee’s metal presence brushed over his mind, understanding and affectionate. Sam bumped back against him, appreciatively. They walked in silence the entire way through North Quad, sharing _feeling_ and _impression_ across their bond-space without words. By the time that they stepped onto the bridge, Bumblebee was already waiting in his alt mode. To Sam’s surprise, Hot Rod and Knock Out were waiting with him.

“Hey guys. What are you doing here?”

“We are on our way to the _Ark._ ” Knock Out replied, his tone pissy and put out, “Ratchet insists that I re-arrange the clinic.”

Sam winced at him sympathetically as he stepped towards the Camaro. He ran his good hand along the length of Bumblebee’s shiny yellow hood.

“Sorry, KO. That sucks.”

The red Aston Martin revved its engines loudly, a sound that somehow managed to covey the depths of his displeasure. The noise echoed up and down the cavernous corridor, causing people to turn their heads in surprise. As Bumblebee opened the driver’s side door, Sam felt Ratchet’s presence _brighten_ across their bond.

_//Brace yourself.//_

It was the only warning that Sam received before the firewalls in his mind fell away, exposing him to the full neural network. The rush of _sensation_ and _vastness_ was dizzying in its intensity, and Bumblebee chirped at him concernedly.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.” Sam managed through gritted teeth, “Thanks for the heads-up, Ratchet.”

Sam felt the mental equivalent of a shrug. After a long moment, he exhaled a slow breath and stretched his mental presence, gaining his bearings. Hot Rod’s and Knock Out’s signatures were nearby and familiar, one pearlescent and petal-soft, the other a gleaming copper-red. Sam could make out other signatures as well—cool blue, gun smoke gray, quicksilver, and there, further away, sunshine yellow. A smile curled the corners of Sam’s mouth at the sight of Jack’s signature, bright and warm. He brushed against the familiar glow with mental fingers, and was immediately met with a flood of _surprise-welcome- **enthusiasm**_.

Sam laughed delightedly, before he turned his attention back towards the neural-network. He marveled at the fact that he ever thought it was dark and empty—it _thrummed_ with light that he could not see, sensation that he could not feel. It was incredible.

 _//Be that as it may, you’re supposed to be firewalling.//_ Ratchet’s dry voice cut through his mind.

_//Ratch, this is wild.//_

_//So you’ve said.//_

Sam snorted as he climbed into Bumblebee’s cab. As soon as he settled onto the driver’s seat, the door closed behind him and Bee’s engine turned over. It was only after they were half-way to the receiving room, and Ratchet’s mental presence had taken on an impatient edge, that Sam grudgingly gathered up a filtering firewall. It fell into place easily enough—certainly more comfortable than the basic block—but it was still heavy and cumbersome. Sam began to feel the strain of keeping it in place by the time they rolled out of the ground-level bunker. 

As soon as they cleared the wide double-doors, Sam was taken aback by the intensity of the storm. The rain came down in sheets, drumming loudly against Bumblebee’s exterior. The three alt modes activated their headlights, a necessary precaution given the swollen, iron-gray clouds that caused mid-morning to seem more like early evening. The sky was occasionally brightened by flashes of lightning that forked across the horizon, followed shortly by long, rolling claps of thunder.

They drove through the downtown area, which was almost entirely empty except for the occasional Humvee or covered truck that passed them. As they turned onto the airfield, Bumblebee accelerated to fifty-five miles per hour. Whenever he drove through the massive puddles that had pooled on the road surface, his tires sent up great curtains of water. Sam sat in silence the entire time that they drove, staring out the windshield at the sky. Whenever a flash of lightning brightened up the cab, he held his breath and counted.

When they arrived at the _Ark_ , Bumblebee slowed to a stop outside of the semi-circle of crates and equipment that surrounded the loading ramp. Hot Rod and Knock Out came to a stop beside him and then they transformed. The sight of the two Autobots standing in the torrential downpour, unaffected by the wind or the rain, was perhaps the most alien that they had ever seemed. Hot Rod turned, lifting two digits to his forehead in a friendly salute. Sam narrowed his eyes in concentration, and then _pinged_ a wordless valediction to the cavalier. Roddy stilled and then smiled down at him, lifting both servos in two thumbs-up.

Knock Out folded his arms over his chest and rolled his optics expressively, but he waved good-bye to Sam all the same.

As soon as the two mechanoids disappeared into the ship, Bumblebee reversed in a three-point turn and headed back towards the base. Rather than drive in the direction of Downtown, however, Bumblebee took the access road that led to Simpson Point. Less than five minutes later, he pulled up to the rocky dune that overlooked the beach. Sam leaned forward, his eyebrows raising in surprise. The ocean was an undulating, foaming mass of dark water that broke onto the foreshore with a vengeance.

“Wow.” Sam said quietly, staring out at the expanse of white-capped waves, “Any chance the Downtown’ll flood?”

“It is unlikely.” Bumblebee replied thoughtfully, “Most of the island is protected from storm surge by its barrier reefs, although it is possible that some minor flooding could occur due to rain run-off.”

Before Sam could reply, a brilliant flash of lightning forked across the sky. At once, he murmured, “One… two… three… four—“

A loud rumble of thunder rolled over the beach with enough force that Sam could feel it. He grinned.

“What are you doing?” Bumblebee asked, curiously.

“I’m counting the number of seconds between the lightning flash and the thunder. It’s something I did as a kid.”

There was a marked pause, and then Bumblebee asked, “Why?”

Sam laughed, reaching out his hand to grasp the steering wheel. He stroked the smooth leather with the pad of his thumb, “To see where the storm is. For every five seconds, the storm’s one mile away.”

“Clever.” Bumblebee replied.

“Well, I didn’t make it up. It’s just something that kids do for fun.” He said with a laugh, settling back into the driver’s seat to watch the storm. The rain came down in lashes, falling so heavily at times that it almost looked like snow. The thought caused the memory of Skywarp to rise to the forefront of his mind, and Sam swallowed hard at the emotion that gripped him. He was aware of Bumblebee’s sudden focus, and he shook his head faintly.

“It’s nothing. It’s dumb.”

Bumblebee did not reply, but he could feel the scout’s patient expectation. Sam sighed softly, looking towards the roof of the cabin.

“When I was… on the _Nemesis_ , it stormed one day. The snow was so thick that I couldn’t even see the mountains. It was the closest that I’d ever been to it. Snow, I mean.” Sam said, his voice soft with reflection, “Later that day, after it stopped storming, Skywarp brought me some to see. He thought I’d like it.”

Sam’s voice trailed off, and a wedge of some indefinable emotion swelled up in his chest. It was nostalgia and appreciation and misery and disgust, all wrapped up together. He knew that he was blinking quickly, his breath coming faster, but he continued speaking despite himself, “It was nice. He didn’t have to do it, but he did. It was wetter than I expected—I thought it’d be fluffy, you know? It looks so soft and dry on television.”

Sam was quiet for a moment longer and then he said, “That was the day that Megatron tortured me until I passed out.”

Bumblebee made a low noise, raw and mournful-sounding, as he rocked lightly on his wheels. Sam lifted one shoulder in a haphazard shrug.

“He wanted me to thank him for punishing me. For putting me in my place.” Sam huffed a bitter laugh as he stared out at the rolling ocean, “I did eventually—and I would have done a lot more to get out of that hangar.”

“Sam… that’s not your fault.”

Sam tensed his jaw until he thought the bone might snap from the pressure. After a long moment, he replied, with an air of affected indifference, “I know that.”

“Do you?” Bumblebee challenged, the quiet of his voice at odds with the steel of his tone.

Sam narrowed his eyes at the dashboard, “Yeah Bee, I know. Of all the things that I’m ashamed of, that one’s pretty far down the list.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence crowded into his mind, wrapping around him.

 _//Everybody breaks, Sam. Eventually.//_ He murmured, and the anguish in his voice caused Sam to flinch, _//If you didn’t bend—if you didn’t concede the little things—then you would have_ shattered _.//_

Sam swallowed hard, once, twice, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. He stared down at the dashboard for a long time, trying to voice his thoughts, but he couldn’t speak. He didn’t know how to put the depths of his despair into words. How could be possibly explain the sheer, animalistic desperation that he had experienced, locked alone in the hangar for weeks on end? How could he justify the relief that he had felt when Megatron had retrieved him? Or the sweet comfort that he had taken in Megatron’s presence during the days that followed, thankful to no longer be alone?

How could he possibly defend himself?

Sam didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt the wetness on his cheeks. His breath was coming in fast, shallow pants, and although he recognized the impending panic attack, he was powerless to prevent it. In an instant, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized in the passenger seat. Firm hands gripped Sam’s shoulders, guiding him down until his head was between his knees.

“Take a deep breath, Sam.”

Sam reached up, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel until his knuckles went white with the strain. He struggled to breathe in, but his lungs refused to expand. Spots were beginning to crowd around the edges of his vision. Bumblebee’s palm rubbed up and down the length of Sam’s spine, slow and soothing.

“Try again. From the bottom of your belly.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and obliged him. He could feel his ribs expanding with the effort, and then the breath stuttered out of him a moment later.

“That’s good Sam. Name five things that you can see.”

Sam took a weak, shaky breath and managed, lowly, “My jeans. My shoes. The floor liner. The gas pedal. The edge of the seat.”

“That’s good.” Bumblebee praised quietly, “What are four things that you can touch?”

Sam breathed in again, slow and unsteady, before he replied.

“Steering wheel. Dashboard. Gear stick. Window.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence smoothed over him, chasing away some of the choking fog that clouded his mind. His touch was firm and gentle, just the same as the hand smoothing across Sam’s back.

“You’re doing so well for me, Sam. Name three things that you can hear.”

Sam took another breath, which came easier this time, and answered him.

“The rain. My heartbeat. Your engine.”

“Good. Two things you can smell?”

“Leather. Salt water.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

Somehow, Sam did not think that ‘cloying mortification’ was the answer that Bumblebee was looking for, so instead he answered, “Cinnamon.”

“Thank-you, Sam.” Bumblebee murmured, as the holoform leaned forward to press his forehead into Sam’s shoulder. They stayed there like that for a long time—long enough for drumming rain to lighten up and Sam’s heartrate to return to something closer to baseline normal. When at last he felt somewhat recovered, Sam straightened up and leaned back against the seat. Bumblebee let him go, continuing to smooth his hands across Sam’s shoulders and down his arms.

“Thanks.” Sam managed at last, his voice rough. Although he no longer felt at imminent risk of a panic attack, he was drained and empty. Numb. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat—together, his emotional turmoil and the strain of maintaining his firewalls were giving him a killer headache. “Can we go back? I’m tired.”

Bumblebee’s mental presence brushed against him, a touch that was both a wordless acknowledgement and a gesture of support. He shifted into gear and then reversed onto the access road. Sam reached out to Ratchet, but before he could voice his request, Sam found himself tucked back within the Creator bond. He sighed in relief and let go of his firewalls, letting them break apart like sand.

As they drove back towards Downtown, the ocean churned and frothed behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are so interested, [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62sZ9ePjMgk) very much encapsulates the ending of this chapter. Along with "See you Again" it is quintessential Sam/Bumblebee. While the fanvid I posted is Johnlock, it is pleasantly apropos to the story (if you squint, of course).


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Minor self-harm, difficult discussions about PTSD.

By the time that Bumblebee pulled onto the bridge, Sam’s headache had deepened to a painful throbbing. He leaned back against the leather seat, his elbow propped up on the driver’s side window and his forefinger and thumb pressed into the bridge of his nose. He was quiet, not having spoken since he asked to return to the base. Bumblebee seemed to understand his need for space, for he neither spoke to Sam nor turned on the radio. As a result, their drive towards North Quad was a quiet one—a fact for which Sam was thankful.

When Bumblebee slowed to a stop outside of the large, red doors, Sam reluctantly climbed out of his cab. He pushed the driver’s side door shut with his hip, and then made his way towards the North Quad entrance. He brushed his fingers over Bumblebee’s bonnet as he walked, a gesture of appreciation as much as farewell. He hadn’t gotten two steps before Bumblebee’s holoform appeared in front of him and then, a moment later, he pulled open the doors on Sam’s behalf. Sam smiled tiredly, but otherwise did not respond.

By the time that they entered his apartment, Sam felt terrible. His head throbbed, pain radiating from his temples in waves that left him feeling vaguely nauseous. As soon as the door shut behind him, Sam pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, and then unfastened his jeans. Once he was down to his boxers, he stumbled towards the couch and laid down, one arm thrown over his face. He could hear Bumblebee moving around the room before his footsteps receded towards the bathroom. Sam reached blindly for the throw blanket at the foot of the couch, and pulled it over himself one-handed.

“Here, Sam.” Bumblebee murmured from his side a moment later. Sam lowered his arm and squinted up at the holoform, who had extended both hands towards him—a glass of water in one, two tablets in the other. Sam pushed up onto his elbow, grimacing as the movement caused pain to stab behind his eyes. He accepted the pills, swallowing them with a mouthful of water, before he laid back down again.

“Can I get you anything?” Bumblebee asked quietly.

Sam shook his head faintly, and when that little motion caused his stomach to lurch threateningly, he amended, “The garbage can from the bathroom, please.”

Bumblebee moved away without a word. When he returned a short while later, he set the bin down by the couch and then brushed his fingers over Sam’s arm.

“Get some rest. I’ll be here, if you need me.”

Sam murmured at him, before rolling onto his side and burrowing his face into the back of the couch. He laid there like that for a long while, breathing from his belly in an effort to control his nausea. The pain in his head and the roiling in his stomach left him feeling sweaty and chilled in equal measures. Just when he began to despair ever falling asleep and escaping his misery, Sam felt a gentle touch in his mind. He turned his attention inwards only to realize that Ratchet’s presence was surprisingly close. Again, the medic _brushed_ against him, and his mental presence was overlaid with impressions of _inquiry_ and _suggestion._ Sam understood at once what he was offering, and he nodded faintly in response. The second that _acquiescence_ crossed Sam’s mind, Ratchet pressed forward into his mental space. Between one moment and the next, Sam was fast asleep.

When he woke up an interminable time later, he felt marginally better. His nausea had receded and his migraine had softened to something closer to a headache. He squinted open his eyes and rolled over, only to realize that someone had retrieved the spare comforter from the bedroom closet and draped it over him while he slept. He smiled faintly to himself, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders and closing his eyes. He was asleep again before he could even entertain the idea of getting up.

When next he woke, it was to the feeling of fingers combing through his hair. He made a sleepy sound and shifted onto his back before opening his eyes. Bumblebee was crouched between the couch and the coffee table, smiling at him.

“How do you feel?”

“Less crappy.” Sam rasped, scrubbing his good hand over his face, “What time is it?”

“It’s almost three o’clock. I brought you lunch.”

Sam leaned to the side, glancing around the holoform. Sure enough, a familiar-looking cafeteria tray was resting on the coffee table, heaped with a strange assortment of food. There was what appeared to be mashed squash, or perhaps sweet potatoes, brown rice, and what Sam could only surmise was boiled chicken breast. He looked from the tray to Bumblebee, unable to keep the dismay off his face. The holoform smiled at him sympathetically.

“Ratchet’s orders, I’m afraid. It’s best practice for post-migraine relief.”

Sam groaned softly, pushing up onto his elbows, “I thought the goal was to get me to eat.”

Bumblebee quirked his lips, motioning for Sam to sit up. Sam grumbled but obliged him, stretching his legs out to rest on the coffee table as Bee handed him the tray. Sam picked up the fork and poked experimentally at the orange-colored mash, wrinkling his nose at the smell of wet squash.

 _Thanks, but no thanks._ He thought, starting in on the brown rice instead. To Sam’s mingled surprise and relief, the brown rice was actually beef fried rice. As Sam took another bite, he glanced over at the holoform.

“How’re my folks?”

“To the best of my knowledge, they’re fine. They went for a walk after breakfast and then retired to their apartment.”

Sam nodded, spearing a piece of chicken and then heaping his fork with fried rice. As he took a bite, Bumblebee handed him a glass of water, which he accepted with mumbled thanks.

“Your appointment with Karen has been moved to four o’clock.”

Sam stilled, his fork halfway to his mouth, before he managed to ask, “What?”

“Your appointment with Karen,” Bumblebee repeated, unhelpfully, “It was scheduled for one o’clock, but Ratchet pushed it back for you.”

Sam was unable to keep the grimace off his face, “Tell him to cancel it.”

Bumblebee was quiet for a long moment, and then he replied, hesitantly, “I think you should go.”

Sam looked at him, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth, “Don’t start. I get enough of that from Ratchet.”

Bumblebee regarded him for a long moment, his expression a complicated mixture of emotion. Eventually, the holoform clasped his hands and sighed.

“It is your choice, of course. I will respect whatever you decide.”

Sam stared at him doubtfully, before he turned back to his food. He ate for several minutes in silence, mulling over Bumblebee’s words. He had known that the scout wanted him to speak with Karen—therapy had been helpful when Sam had first arrived at Diego Garcia, after all. Yet, there was a vast difference between depression caused by upheaval and change, and whatever it was that he was struggling with now. He couldn’t imagine a world where his biggest concern was breaking up with his high school girlfriend or finding out that the Allspark had halted his aging. It seemed like another lifetime ago.

All at once, Sam lost his appetite. He set down his fork and took another drink of water, before pushing himself to his feet.

“I’m going to shower. Tell Ratchet to cancel the appointment.” He said, voice inflectionless, as he made his way around the couch. Bumblebee watched him go, his eyes dark with emotion but otherwise his expression was unreadable. Sam walked into his bedroom, pulling open the closet door with more force than necessary. He grabbed the first clothes that he saw, a faded Doors shirt and a pair of jeans, before tossing them onto the bed and making his way into the bathroom. Sam closed the door behind him, turning to press his forehead into the wood as he squeezed his eyes shut.

This was fine. He was fine.

Sam exhaled a shaky breath and pushed away from the door. He padded over to the toilet and relieved himself, before washing his hands and pulling open the linen closet. What he saw gave him pause: there were two tidy piles of towels, folded neatly and precisely, sorted by color with darkest on the bottom. On the next shelf down was a similar pile of facecloths and hand towels. On shelf below that, his toilet paper had been removed from the plastic wrapping and arranged in symmetrical rows.

Sam swallowed hard at the sight of his mother’s handiwork, before retrieving his bath linens and shutting the closet door. He turned on the shower and took off his boxers, stepping into the spray without waiting for the water to warm. The shock of cold went right down his spine, clearing his mind and obliterating any thought about therapy. Sam reached out a hand, turning the faucet to cold, before he started to soap up. He forced himself to wash slowly as goosebumps broke out over his body and he began to shiver. When he finished, he dropped the facecloth onto the shower floor and, steeling himself, stepped into the frigid stream of water. He gasped involuntarily, but stood stock-still beneath the showerhead until he was thoroughly soaked. Then, reaching blindly for his shampoo, he lathered his hair and began to scrub his scalp. By the time that he rinsed the suds away, he was shaking so badly that his teeth chattered together. Sam didn’t mind the cold—for all that his body was trembling, it was perfectly still and quiet inside of his head.

He didn’t know for how long he stayed there, but abruptly the shower shut off. Sam blinked water out of his eyes, peering blearily at Bumblebee who was standing beside the tub. The holoform’s expression was inscrutable, except for the way that his lips were pressed together. He pushed the shower curtain aside, and wrapped a heavy towel around Sam’s shoulders. Sam did not protest as Bumblebee led him into the bedroom and instructed him to sit on the bed. The holoform disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a second towel, which he proceeded to rub over Sam’s hair. As Bumblebee dried him, carefully and meticulously, Sam could feel the restless edge of his anxiety through their bond; it caused a shard of guilt to burrow itself in his chest. As Bumblebee helped him into a long-sleeved shirt, which he had evidentially exchanged for the t-shirt that Sam had chosen, Sam made eye contact with him.

“I’ll go.” He said quietly.

Bumblebee stilled, his hands coming to rest on Sam’s shoulders, which he squeezed gently.

“Thank-you.”

Less than thirty minutes later, Sam found himself sitting in the bland but tidy waiting room in South Quad. He flipped through a glossy magazine without reading a single word, his stomach twisting itself in knots. There were a few others in the waiting room—two men and a woman, all three commissioned officers in casual dress. As soon as the analog clock on the wall ticked over to four o’clock, Karen called his name from the hallway beside the receptionist’s desk. Sam set down the magazine and, without making eye contact with anyone else in the room, followed Karen back to her office.

Karen’s office was a small but familiar space. There was a desk off to one side—computer monitor, box of tissues, and small succulents arranged in a white planter. A long filing cabinet took up most of one wall, and two armchairs faced one another in the center of the room. Everything about the office, from the minimalist artwork to the bland but tasteful color palette, seemed designed to put patients at ease. Sam settled into the armchair that he had come to think of as ‘his’, and waited for Karen to take her seat across from him.

“Thank-you for coming, Sam.” She said as she sat down, crossing one ankle over the other.

He sighed softly, “Yeah, no problem Karen.”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had a session.” Karen continued, pen in one hand, “A lot has happened since we last talked.”

Sam was unable to keep the grimace off his face at the reminder. Other than their brief meeting the week before, he had last spoken to Karen several months after Ripcord’s attack. It had taken him a long time to fully articulate all that had happened, from dying to on-lining to spark-bonding. To his knowledge, Karen was the only human who knew the full extent of what had happened to him—not even Dave or Will knew about his connection with Bumblebee.

“So what do you want to talk about today?” She asked. It was a familiar refrain, one that she often used to begin their sessions.

“Karen, I think we both know the answer to that. I’m only here for Bee.”

“He’s worried about you.” She deduced, her voice carefully neutral.

Sam heaved a heavy sigh, letting his head fall back onto the chair.

“Karen, I understand the therapy process, but I think it would save us both a lot of time if you just come out and say what you’re thinking.”

“Do you know what a honeymoon phase is, Sam?” She asked instead, catching him by surprise. He lifted his head to stare at her in confusion.

“Like, after a wedding?”

Karen nodded, “That’s where the phrase originates from, yes, but in this case it refers to the period immediately after a prisoner is returned home. It is not uncommon for POWs to experience a brief but intense ‘honeymoon phase’, whereby their negative feelings of anger, grief, and guilt are overshadowed by more positive feelings of relief and joy. This phase typically lasts a week, maybe two, before the reality of what happened begins to sink in again.”

Sam frowned, trying to make sense of her non-sequitur. After a moment, he asked flatly, “Are you saying that I’ve been in denial?”

“Not denial, no. Not precisely.” Karen corrected, “It’s more like repression.”

“Karen, I lost my shit and shattered my bathroom mirror.” He said, gesturing vaguely with his bad hand, “I wouldn’t exactly call the last week a honeymoon.”

“How have you been sleeping?” She asked, sidestepping his reply. 

“It’s all over the place. Some nights are better than others.”

“And eating?”

“The same, I guess.” Sam replied, slowly.

“Have you had any flashbacks?” She asked in a tone that suggested she already suspected his answer.

“Karen, are you seriously trying to go down the PTSD checklist?” He asked, irritation edging his tone.

“Do I need to?” She countered smoothly.

“We both know that PTSD and depression are listed in my chart. What are you getting at?”

Karen clasped her hands together and rested them on the clipboard in her lap, “You have struggled with sleep disturbances, loss of appetite, flashbacks, and anxiety since we first met. Bumblebee has never urged you to speak with me before. What’s different? Why today and not last week?”

Sam frowned at her faintly. He knew the answer to her question, of course, but he was not ready to confront the enormity of that topic.

“New subject.” He said at last. Karen tucked her long, auburn hair behind one ear as she nodded.

“Alright. How is your parents’ visit going?”

“I’m not sure that’s any better.” Sam replied dryly.

Karen didn’t smile, not exactly, but her eyes warmed and her lips twitched up. “How so?”

Although still difficult, this was a far easier topic for Sam to navigate. He felt some of the tension leave his shoulders, and he interlaced his fingers loosely in his lap.

“I told them about what happened to me. Well, most of what happened. I didn’t mention the spark-bond.”

“Oh?” Karen asked gently.

This back-and-forth between them was familiar, and Sam found himself relaxing minutely as Karen pursued the safer subject. His tone was dry and self-deprecating as he recounted his mother’s shock and his abject embarrassment at having been caught in a tender moment with Bumblebee. Karen did smile then, commiserating with him that being caught-out by parents was something of a universal experience. Sam laughed, but his humor was short-lived as he told her about the difficult conversation that followed. She listened in silence, nodding supportively as he talked. He surprised himself by being forthright about the pain that the conversation had caused, especially as it related to his mother’s warning about his father.

When she followed up with the clichéd and trite, “How did that make you feel?” Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Not great, Karen.” He replied, sarcastically. If she was affected by the tone of his voice, she did not show it.

“Care to elaborate?” She asked instead.

Sam worked his jaw, resisting the urge to say something biting in response. He could have told her that it left him feeling unmoored and adrift, but that was perilously close to the subject that he didn’t want to discuss. Instead, he answered her directly.

“Not particularly.”

Karen nodded, accepting his answer without comment. They talked more generally about his parents’ visit—about their walk along the Point and dinner at the Officer’s Club and late nights in front of the television. When Sam’s answers started coming more easily, Karen pivoted topics and asked about his father’s reaction to his news. He stared at the ceiling for a long while in silence, before he shrugged his shoulders and answered her. His reply was direct and to-the-point, explaining what had happened without elaborating about the emotional fallout that it caused.

Shrewdly, Karen replied, “That sounds very overwhelming.”

Sam took a deep breath in through his nose and held it as he began to count the ceiling tiles. After he got to seventeen, he released the breath out through his mouth.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” Karen echoed, with no trace of doubt or disapproval in her voice, “It doesn’t sound fine.”

“It could have been worse.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. You’re allowed to be upset.”

Inexplicable anger flared through him in an instant, and he looked her in the eyes for the first time since sitting down, “I’m not upset with him.”

“I never said that you were, I said that you’re allowed to be. Your feelings are valid, Sam.”

The familiar refrain rubbed him the wrong way, and he scoffed loudly in response.

“I know that I’m allowed to feel my feelings, Karen.”

“Do you?” She asked, not unkindly, “You’ve been deflecting since you walked into this office. I’ve tried to get you to share a genuine emotion with me, and all I’ve gotten in response is ‘fine’ and ‘not great’ and ‘could have been worse’.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, incensed by the accusation underlying her words, “You want a genuine emotion? How about anger? I’m feeling pretty pissed off right now.”

Karen clasped her hands together, pinning him with an appraising look, “Why are you angry, Sam?”

“Oh for fuck sakes, Karen. You know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“That! That right there. Stop it. If you have something to say, then just say it. Don’t insinuate it, it’s condescending.”

Karen tilted her head and asked, gently, “What am I insinuating, Sam?”

Sam screwed his eyes closed, distantly aware of the way his heart was beginning to pound in his chest. It took him a long moment before he could grit out through clenched teeth, “You think I’m more upset than I’m letting on.”

“That is a concern, yes, but it isn’t something that I’ve insinuated. I’ve stated it outright.” Karen replied matter-of-factly, “Is that all that you think I’m insinuating?”

All at once, the fight went out of him. His anger and offence drained away, replaced with familiar numbness. He leaned back against the chair, his hands lying loosely against the armrests.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling.” Sam replied quietly, “It’s all confused.”

She smiled at him, warm and understanding and encouraging, all at once.

“I know it is, Sam. Don’t try to articulate all that you have been feeling over the last two years. Start small. What are you feeling right now?”

“Nothing.” He said honestly, and then before she could reply, he clarified, “Not angry, not sad, not upset. Just… nothing.”

Karen made a note on her clipboard, nodding as she wrote, “That’s normal. Apathy is a common coping mechanism.” She set down her pen and asked, “What about earlier today? When you asked to cancel our meeting.”

Sam raised his shoulder in an indifferent shrug, “Anxious, I guess. I don’t like the idea of talking about what happened. I just want to forget about it.”

Karen’s face softened in sympathy.

“But you know that won’t happen, don’t you, Sam? You can’t forget about two years’ worth of trauma. You have to work through it, difficult though it may be.”

“Yeah, I know.” He replied tiredly. It wasn’t that he necessarily agreed with her, but he didn’t have the energy to argue about it either. Karen seemed to accept his answer at face value, for she set the clipboard and pen on her desk before pinning him with another appraising look.

“How have you found the sertraline?” She asked, “Any side effects?”

“Nothing that I’ve noticed.” He replied.

“As with any SSRI, sertraline can cause a wide array of seemingly contradictory side effects. Lack of energy and drowsiness are possible, but so too are agitation and restlessness.”

Sam laughed lowly, “All of the above, I guess?”

“If your symptoms aren’t out of the ordinary, we can probably assume that they are the result of your mental health and not the medication.” She paused, before asking delicately, “Have you noticed any sexual side effects?”

“Wh—what?” Sam managed, flushing with embarrassment.

“SSRIs commonly cause lack of arousal or inability to ejaculate in men.”

“Nope, I’m fine.” Sam managed, his flush deepening to vivid red, “All good.”

Karen nodded seriously, “Alright then. I’m going to increase your dosage to 50 mg per day, and I’ll also prescribe a benzodiazepine to help you sleep. Take one tablet before bed, as needed, and don’t mix with alcohol.”

He nodded faintly, and Karen stood up. Sam followed suit, and then they made their way back towards the waiting room together. As they approached the reception desk, Karen turned towards him.

“Friday at 1PM, yes?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied.

“Alright. I’ll see you then.” She said, turning around and walking back towards her office. Sam watched her leave, and then he pushed his hands into his pockets and left the suite.

The rest of the week developed into a predictable routine. He woke up earlier than usual to have breakfast with his folks, after which they spent the morning together. They stayed inside on Wednesday, the day after the storm made landfall. He took his parents first to South Quad, showing them logistics and then Ops, and then to East Quad. There wasn’t a lot to interest them in the research division, but before he took them back to their apartment, Sam stopped by Wheeljack’s lab. He was delighted when he stepped into the hangar to find the engineer servo-deep in a complicated-looking piece of machinery. As soon as the Autobot saw him, his dorsal fins lit up in brilliant sunshine-yellow.

Sam introduced Jack to his parents, and then laughed quietly to himself as the engineer launched into a series of overly personal but enthusiastic questions about human reproduction and childrearing. His mother rose admirably to the occasion, answering most of his questions with the unflappable patience of a saint. His father, on the other hand, stared at Jack as though he were something untrustworthy.

In the afternoons, Sam joined Dave and Will at the command center in West Quad or the command post in South Quad as they continued to prepare for the parlay. Starscream had insisted on Saturday for the meeting, for reasons that Sam came to understand had to do with Megatron’s patrols. So they assigned teams of NEST personnel to strategic locations in the Gobi desert, planned the movement of vehicles and supplies, and arranged for the secure transportation of the ground bridge. Although Sam was untrained and inexperienced in the finer points of logistics, he paid attention to everything that happened around him with an intensity of focus that took him by surprise. He found that he enjoyed the minutiae of planning and coordination, even though his role was only a minor one.

By six or seven o’clock in the evening, the three of them would find their way to the mess hall for a quick meal. Afterwards, Dave and Will made their way back to logistics, while Sam grudgingly returned to his apartment. Thursday night found him pacing his room for hours, keyed up and restless. Bumblebee stayed with him until he had to recharge, and then he was forced to leave Sam to his own devices. Just after midnight, Sam threw in the towel and retrieved the orange pill bottle from the bathroom. He shook one of the small, white tablets onto his palm and swallowed it down with a mouthful of tap water. Then, he made his way into bedroom and sprawled out across the mattress, waiting for the medication to kick in.

He woke up eight hours later with a muzzy mind and a dry mouth, to the sound of his mother incessantly ringing the doorbell. Sam was off the bed in a shot, stumbling into the living room. As he pulled open the door with an apology already on his tongue, he decided that benzos were for emergencies only.

That morning was the first time he broached the topic of being present during the activation. Ratchet turned him down flat, and refused to hear another word on the subject. Sam pestered him until the medic retreated behind an impenetrable block, much to Sam’s abject irritation. Next, he turned to Bumblebee in the hopes that the scout would be more amenable. Although he was sympathetic, Bee did not seem particularly put out by Ratchet’s refusal. Sam stewed on the medic’s response for the rest of the day, and by Friday morning, he decided to weaponize Karen. He turned up for their appointment at one o’clock, and almost before she shut the office door, Sam began to talk about the activation. She listened to him with a serious expression on her face, interrupting only to ask for clarification or to pull the thread of something that he said. When at last he stopped speaking, Sam looked at her hopefully.

“What do you think?” He asked.

Karen was silent for a long moment, before she replied, carefully, “What I think isn’t important. Why do you want to go?”

“I already explained that.” Sam replied impatiently.

“No, you explained why you _should_ go, not why you _want_ to go.”

Her words brought him up short, and he frowned, stymied.

“It’s the same thing.” He said, at last.

“Not necessarily.” Karen corrected him, “One is a reflection of obligation, the other a reflection of desire. Why do you want to go, Sam?”

Sam’s frown deepened as he mulled over her words. It was a long time before he replied, “I don’t know. I guess to prove that I can.”

Karen regarded him with an air of contemplation as she prompted, “How so?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, “The last time I was in the command post during an activation was that night. I want to prove to myself that I can do it.”

“Do you want to prove it to yourself or to everyone else? Be honest with yourself now, Sam.”

“To myself.” He replied immediately, “I had a flashback when TC—when Thundercracker and Skywarp first came to the island. It was the sound of the proximity alarm that did it, it took me right back to that night. I hated feeling so helpless.”

“Do you think that an activation is the right time to explore those feelings? What if you have another flashback?”

“I won’t.” Sam replied determinedly, “I’ve heard the proximity alarm since then, and it didn’t affect me like that first time.”

“Perhaps, but this would be different. You’d be in the command post, with the displays lit up and the room lights lowered. It would be just like that night.”

Sam set his jaw stubbornly, “I want to do it, Karen.”

“I don’t doubt that, Sam, but I think it’s too soon.”

Sam made an angry sound in the back of his throat, “Well, thanks for believing in me, I guess.”

Karen’s expression became faintly disapproving, “I believe in you, Sam. If I did not, I wouldn’t have taken you on as a patient, but I won’t set you up for failure.”

Sam sighed softly, letting his head thump back against the chair.

“I hate feeling so useless.”

She was silent for several seconds before she asked, “What if you helped in other ways? You’ve spoken about Wheeljack. Perhaps you could help him in the ground bridge hangar?”

“Really?” Sam asked in surprise, lifting his head off the back of the chair, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Karen smiled at him, “I can’t promise that Prime will agree, of course, but I’ll make my recommendation.”

“Ratchet’s not going to like it.” Sam warned her, wryly.

“You leave Ratchet to me.”

* * *

That evening, Sam said good-bye to his parents in the quiet of the ground bridge hangar. Only Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Dave were there to bid his parents farewell. His mother hugged him close, before stepping back to card her fingers through his hair. He smiled at her affectionately and placed a light kiss on her cheek. His father’s hug was gruff, and his hand was heavy as it rested on the back of Sam’s head. As the blue-green miasma burst to life in the semi-circular archway, his mother turned to look at Bumblebee. Her eyes were moist as she stepped towards him and wrapped her thin arms around his neck. Bumblebee’s expression became faintly surprised, but he lifted his arms to stroke a servo down her back. She patted his faceplates affectionately as she murmured something at him, before moving to stand beside his father once again.

Dave smiled at them politely, gesturing towards the ground bridge. Together, the three of them stepped through the swirling vortex and then, a moment later, they were gone. Sam swallowed hard as he stared at the now-empty archway, and then he reached across their bond-space to brush against the winter-white glow that rested at the edge of his mind.

 _//What did she say to you?//_ Sam asked, without looking at him.

 _//She told me to look after you.//_ Bumblebee replied a moment later. Sam nodded faintly, struggling to keep the emotion off his face as he turned away from the ground bridge. Bumblebee transformed into his alt mode, opening the driver’s side door as soon as his tires touched concrete. Sam slid into his cab without a word, thankful for the privacy.

* * *

By the following afternoon, the Hive was a flurry of highly coordinated chaos. To Sam’s genuine surprise, Optimus informed him just before noon that he was permitted to spend the activation in the ground bridge hangar. When Sam shared this information with Bumblebee, his bonded was introspective but supportive. Ratchet, on the other hand, made his displeasure abundantly clear. Eventually, Sam pulled away from the medic as far as their bond would allow, eager for a respite from the medic’s temper.

By the time that three o’clock rolled around, Sam and Bumblebee found themselves in the ground bridge hangar. Sam was dressed in the lightweight protective vest that Wheeljack had made two years before, a small price to pay for the ability to attend the activation. The large room was bustling with activity, including dozens of NEST soldiers, a handful of dune buggies and all-terrain vehicles, and almost half of the Autobots on base. There were three teams heading through the ground bridge, with Optimus leading one, Ultra Magnus leading another, and Ironhide leading the third. The assembled Autobots included all of the scouts (a necessity, given the terrain), plus Optimus’ shock troopers and front-liners. Notably, neither Bumblebee nor Ratchet were deploying for the activation. Instead, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and First Aid went in their place.

Sam stood beside the engineer as he keyed up the ground bridge controls, watching as his clever servos flew over the touch-screen in front of him. Bumblebee stood a short distance away, battle mask engaged and systems running hot. If Wheeljack was uncomfortable with Bumblebee’s proximity, Sam couldn’t tell. As soon as the brilliant whirlpool of color erupted to life in the archway, Optimus gestured for his troops to move forward. One by one, humans and Autobots alike disappeared through the ground bridge, until the hangar was quiet once again.

The following half-hour dragged on, despite Bumblebee’s reports. He knew when the Autobots assumed their positions, and when the command trine arrived. Sam was surprised to learn that, in addition to Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker, two Seekers named Acid Storm and Dirge also arrived for the parlay.

“Who are they?” Sam asked in confusion, “Why did they come?”

“They are part of the Armada,” Bumblebee explained, his voice contemplative, “Acid Storm will speak for the Rainmakers, although Dirge is something of a surprise.”

“Why? Is he loyal to Megatron?”

“No, he’s a coward.” Bumblebee replied, dryly.

So it was that Sam learned, bit by bit, of Starscream’s plan. As the Air Commander had promised, all of the Armada on board the _Nemesis_ was loyal to their liege lord, with the exception of Blitzwing and Slipstream, who Starscream had not trusted to approach. In terms of the Decepticon ground-frames, only Detour and Breakdown had been taken into confidence, both at Drift’s suggestion. Shockwave, Barricade, Quake, and the Constructions were loyal to Megaton onto death.

Once allegiances had been confirmed, the coup was arranged. It was decided that a feint would be necessary, to divert as many troops as possible away from the _Nemesis_. Optimus agreed to stage a trap for Megatron’s soldiers, with the understanding that the Armada would attempt to seize the _Nemesis_ during the fray. If that was not possible, then they would fall back to assist the Autobots in capturing Megatron and overthrowing his soldiers.

Sam worried his lip between his teeth as Bumblebee relayed the information to him. He did not trust Starscream to stay true to his side of the bargain once Megatron had been captured or killed, and if Starscream controlled the _Nemesis_ , then his betrayal would be a significant blow. When Sam shared his concerns with Bumblebee, the scout nodded slowly in agreement. Before he could reply, however, Bumblebee’s optics widened and his antennae perked up in surprised disbelief.

“What?” Sam asked, anxiety rushing through him in an instant, “What is it?”

“Starscream is insisting that a liaison return with Optimus to Diego Garcia, as both an observer and as a gesture of good faith on Optimus’ behalf.”

Sam frowned deeply, “Good faith? Starscream? Not likely.”

Bumblebee shook his helm minutely, “No, not Starscream. Ravage.”

Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat, and it took him a moment before he could ask, “Ravage?”

The scout’s optics were distant in the way that suggested he was paying close attention to internal communications.

“Evidentially.” Bumblebee replied, tersely, “She is able to communicate with Soundwave from anywhere on the planet, which Starscream argues is necessary for planning and coordination.”

“But?” Sam prompted.

“But she is an infiltrator and a saboteur.” Bumblebee replied tightly, “She cannot be trusted.”

Sam did not reply, could not reply, around the lump in his throat. He only listened with half an ear as Bumblebee continued to speak, his thoughts turned inward. After a long time, Sam was forced to admit that the feeling in his chest was longing. He wanted to see her again, even under the difficult circumstances. Sam had little time to dwell on the revelation, for a moment later, Wheeljack’s servos began to fly over the ground bridge controls. Bumblebee drew Sam closer to his chassis as the scout stepped away from the archway. Sam went without complaint, leaning against the warm metal of Bumblebee’s chest plates as the scout crouched down behind him.

As soon as the blue-green miasma burst to life in the archway, Autobot and NEST personnel began to stream through. Sam could not help the pang of relief to see them, whole and unscathed. As soon as they stepped through the ground bridge, the Autobots and soldiers moved away, making room for those who came behind them. The hangar soon became a flurry of activity again, loud with the clang of metal on metal and shouted commands.

Sam’s eyes were drawn back to the ground bridge as Optimus stepped through the archway. A moment later, Ravage appeared at his side. The cyber cat looked exactly as Sam remembered her, sleek and silver and fierce. She surveyed the room with a single, ruby optic, before her head turned unerringly in his direction. As soon as she saw him, Ravage padded forward. Bumblebee stiffened behind him, trilling an ominous warning as she approached. She stopped a short distance away, settling onto her haunches as she wrapped her tail around her great, metal paws.

Sam smiled at her faintly.

“Hello you.”

Ravage rumbled lowly in her chassis, a warm and affectionate sound.

“Hello little Prime. You have been missed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, we are getting close to the end for Tribulations. Just a little ways left to go. After this story wraps up, we will be moving onto the third installment of the series *throws confetti*. Thanks for sticking by me all this time!


	27. Chapter 27

Sam huffed at Ravage quietly, but before he could reply, he became aware of the simmering tension in the room. Ultra Magnus stood stiffly at Optimus’ side, disapproval written all over his faceplates. Although Optimus’ expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, he watched Sam with an intensity of regard that left him feeling wrong-footed. The other Autobots in the hangar had similarly stopped what they were doing to watch their exchange. Sam saw a wide range of emotions on their faces, from concern to surprise to barely restrained hostility. Ravage turned her head to look over her shoulder, following his line of sight. After a long moment, she swung her head back towards him.

“It seems that we have an audience.” She observed, her voice openly amused. She seemed unaffected by the weight of the scrutiny that was being directed their way. Sam could not say the same—he could feel the uncomfortable flush that was spreading across his face, like a rising tide. Before he could answer her, however, Red Alert stepped close to them. The Security Director’s expression was tense. Although his weapons were tucked away and his battlemask was not engaged, Red Alert had the air of someone on edge. It wasn’t nervousness, not exactly, but it was certainly an air of suspicion and distrust.

“Ravage. Please, come with me.” Red Alert said.

The cyber cat regarded him for a long moment, seemingly considering his request, before she pushed herself to her feet. She turned back to Sam, her single, red optic fixed on his face.

“Until we meet again, little Prime.” She rumbled, her voice carrying in the sudden quiet of the hangar. Without further ado, the Security Director led her across the room and out the double doors on the far wall. Sam watched her go, pensive and uncertain in equal measures. He twisted around, looking up at Bumblebee. The scout was watching him closely, his optics unusually bright despite the harsh florescent lighting overhead.

“Where’s he taking her?” Sam asked, quietly.

Before Bumblebee could reply, Optimus’ low baritone answered him.

“Red Alert is taking Ravage to the _Ark._ ”

Sam turned to look up at him, something like anxiety worming its way into his gut. Optimus had moved closer to the two of them, standing a noticeable distance away from Ultra Magnus and the other Autobots that remained in the hangar.

“As a prisoner?” Sam asked quietly.

“As a guest.” Optimus corrected him, “Ravage is a skilled infiltrator and programmer. It would be too great a risk to allow her free roam of the Hive, regardless of our truce with the Decepticons.”

Sam nodded slowly in understanding. Optimus was right, he knew. Ravage was both a chronicler-class cassette and unfailingly loyal to Soundwave, two facts that made her a significant liability. Yet, despite this knowledge, Sam felt disquieted. She had been a source of both emotional and physical comfort during his imprisonment on the _Nemesis_. It seemed somehow disloyal to let her languish alone in the _Ark_ , surrounded by enemy forces. Sam hesitated for only a moment before raising his head to fix Optimus with an imploring look.

“Let me stay with her.”

Bumblebee trilled at him softly, and although Sam did not understand the words, he certainly understood the sentiment. Sam turned to look at the scout, his expression equal parts apologetic and determined. He reached out one hand to press against his chest plates, before turning back to Optimus. The Autobot leader had lowered onto one knee, his blue optics fixed on Sam.

“Sam, I understand that Ravage provided you no small degree of comfort onboard the _Nemesis_ , but she is a security risk.”

Sam resisted the urge to scowl at the compassionate but firm tone of Optimus’ voice. He set his jaw and took a step towards the Autobot leader.

“Come on, Optimus. You wanted me to be your liaison, so let me liaise.” Sam said, his voice just as firm as Optimus’ had been, “She won’t hurt me, and leaving her alone would be a poor way to repay her kindness.”

Optimus ex-vented a soft sigh, “Sam, do not mistake Ravage’s kindness for benevolence. She does nothing without her Master’s explicit command.”

Sam frowned, feeling inexplicably insulted, on both Ravage’s behalf and his own.

“I know that she wasn’t being kind to me out of the goodness of her spark, but she was kind to me when I needed kindness. The way I respond to that kindness is a reflection of me, not a reflection of her motives.” Sam said stubbornly.

Optimus shuttered his optics briefly, his expression as serious and contemplative as Sam had ever seen him. After a long moment, he shook his helm minutely.

“I cannot allow you to accompany her unattended.”

Sam’s heart started to beat faster as a candle flame of hope ignited in his chest, “I understand. Bumblebee will come with me.” He glanced over his shoulder at the scout, hopeful and pleading. His bonded was as still as a statue, his optics boring into his face. Sam could feel the conflicted nature of his mental presence—his possessiveness and protectiveness, his affection and concern. Eventually, the scout nodded. Sam turned back to Optimus to find that the Autobot leader was regarding him closely.

“I will give your request my full consideration, Sam.” Optimus rumbled, “But I make no promises.”

“Yes, alright. Okay.” Sam said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

Optimus inclined his head fractionally, “Although it heartens me considerably to know that you wish to embrace your role as our liaison, you should not feel pressured to do so on Ravage’s behalf.”

“I don’t.” Sam replied immediately, before correcting himself, “Well, it’s not just that. I want to feel useful again.”

Optimus’ expression became concerned, almost troubled, as he leaned into Sam’s personal space, “Sam, your place here, and with us, is not predicated on your usefulness.”

Sam’s lips quirked up at the note of fathomless intensity in the Autobot leader’s words. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to pat his servo.

“I know, Optimus. Thanks.” He murmured sincerely.

Optimus looked at him a moment longer, before straightening to his full height. He turned to look Prowl, who had silently approached during their discussion. The second-in-command stopped a short distance away, nodding respectfully.

“Forgive my interruption, Prime. The teleconference for the SAARC summit is ready for you.”

“My thanks, Prowl. Have they confirmed the time?”

“You’re due in seventeen minutes.”

Optimus nodded before turning back to Sam. Sam’s smile curled wider, and he raised one shoulder in a good-natured shrug.

“No rest for the wicked, huh?”

The Autobot leader’s optics warmed in amusement, “It would seem not.”

Optimus inclined his head in farewell, and then he and Prowl strode from the ground bridge hangar together. Sam watched them go before turning to look at Bumblebee. His bonded watched him in silence, his expression inscrutable and his mental presence muted. Sam stepped close to his chassis, bumping his chest plates with a shoulder.

“Thanks for having my back.” He murmured, looking up into Bumblebee’s optics, “I know that you’re worried, but you don’t need to be.”

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, a melancholy sound, as he stroked the tips of his digits down Sam’s back. “I will always worry about you, Sam. You’re my bonded.”

All at once, Sam realized that Bumblebee was speaking about more than his request to accompany Ravage. His smile softened, becoming reassuring.

“I’ll be okay, Bee.” Sam said quietly, and Bumblebee’s servo stilled in its circuitous route over Sam’s back, “Thanks, though.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, tilting his head, “Mind taking me to North Quad? I’m going to grab something to eat.”

In lieu of reply, Bumblebee stood up and stepped back, transforming into his alt mode. As soon as he finished his transformation sequence, Bee popped open his driver’s side door. Sam grinned at him appreciatively, before climbing into the cab. Bumblebee revved his engine loudly, a sound that echoed around the cavernous hangar, drawing looks from humans and Autobots alike. Sam laughed softly, settling back against the familiar leather seat as the door snapped closed behind him. A moment later, Bumblebee accelerated into the corridor, heading towards the East Quad entrance. The research division was unusually busy, despite the evening hour; technicians, administrative staff, and soldiers alike made their way through its halls. Bumblebee drove slowly, staying on the right side of the corridor and giving the humans a wide berth.

They were halfway to North Quad when Sam noticed Dave walking on the opposite side of the bridge. The personal assistant was carrying a stack of manila folders in one hand and a large thermos in the other. He was dressed as he often was during the day, in a dark suit that had been meticulously pressed, and an iron-blue tie. Sam glanced down at the dash, opening his mouth to ask Bumblebee to stop, but the Camaro slowed down before he had the chance. A moment later, Sam’s window lowered of its own accord.

“Dave.” Sam called out, causing the agent to turn in surprise, “Want a drive?”

Dave smiled at him appreciatively, lifting his thermos in a haphazard salute, “Thanks, Sam, Bee. I appreciate that.”

A moment later, the agent climbed into the passenger seat, settling the pile of folders into his lap. Sam glanced over at him, an eyebrow quirking up.

“Some light reading before bed?”

Dave laughed self-deprecatingly, “Unfortunately not. It’s all paperwork that needs to be filled out and filed before start-of-business tomorrow.”

Bumblebee pulled the passenger door closed as soon as Dave was settled.

 _“Where to?”_ Bumblebee asked, his voice spilling from the radio. Dave smiled at the dashboard, tidying the pile of papers in his lap.

“North Quad, please. I’m grabbing a quick bite before heading back to the office.”

“I was heading to the mess too.” Sam replied good-naturedly, “Care for some dinner company?”

Dave’s smile spread wider, “Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, Sam and Dave stood in the long line at the galley. The mess hall was loud with animated talking of personnel and the clink of dishware and cutlery. Dave carried the stack of folders under one arm, while he pushed his tray with the other. Sam watched him in amusement, nodding to the line cooks as he passed. When he got to the dinner entrees, he was excited to see chicken tikka masala was on the menu. He grabbed himself a plate, along with a side of naan and a bottle of soda, before moving towards the cash registers. Dave followed shortly thereafter, having gotten himself a salad and a bowl of soup. When they sat down a short while later, Sam and Bumblebee on one side of the table and Dave on the other, Sam gestured at the salad with his fork.

“Welcome to flavor country, population: you.”

Dave glanced down at his plate, and then looked back up with a lopsided grin.

“I’m watching my cholesterol and sodium. Ratchet’s not happy with my blood pressure.”

Sam laughed, directing a sympathetic smile in Dave’s direction, “You have my condolences.”

Dave chuckled, taking another bite of his salad as Sam turned his attention to his own meal. The curried sauce was lightly spiced, with just a hint of coconut. Not for the first time, Sam was worshipfully thankful for the quality of the south-Asian cuisine on base. He took a long and then he nodded towards the stack of manila folders resting on the table.

“So what’s all that?”

Dave glanced down at the paperwork, his mouth twisting in an exasperated grimace.

“Prime is applying for membership with the SAARC. It’s a watered down but no less arduous version of the petition we put forward for the United Nations.”

Sam recalled that Prowl had interrupted his conversation with Optimus to discuss that phrase. He tilted his head, unable to deny the twinge of curiosity that pulled at him.

“SAARC?” He asked.

“South Asian Association for Regional Cooperation. It’s a union of states in south Asia intended to promote economic and regional integration. Our petition is being sponsored by India and Bangladesh, so it’s unlikely to be denied, but it’s still time-consuming.”

Sam listened in open interest. He had forgotten what it was like to talk about geopolitical issues over dinner, as though he were back in school again. He tore a piece of naan and sopped up some of the curry sauce, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully.

“Will membership in SAARC cause conflict with the UN?”

Dave shook his head, “All of the SAARC states are also members of the United Nations, and the UN is a permanent observer of the association. At the end of the day, it’s a lot of bureaucracy and paperwork, but the economic benefits could be significant.”

Sam nodded in understanding before motioning to the pile of folders with his fork, “Anything I can do to help?”

The agent seemed to consider his question seriously, “There’s nothing you can do for this round of paperwork, but if you’re offering to help, I could make use of you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam said with an easy smile, “I’m happy to help, so much as a two-time university drop-out with no formal training can help.”

Dave glanced up at him, his mouth tightening in disapproval, “Don’t put yourself down, Sam. You can’t use other people’s yardsticks to measure your own progress.”

Sam was taken aback by the tone of Dave’s voice. He had never heard the personal assistance be anything other than upbeat and professional. Sam quirked an eyebrow at him and shrugged, taking another bite of his chicken tikka masala.

“It’s not a yardstick, it’s a fact.” He replied, but his tone was good humored, “Do you know when I’ll be able to register for classes?”

Dave stared at him for a long moment, before he shook his head.

“Stanford’s Winter term runs from January to March, so you’re looking at a Spring or Fall start-time. The Spring semester begins in April, which may be too early to consider registration.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask about the course offerings, when he paused, frowning.

“What’s the date?” He asked instead. In all the time that he had been back on Diego Garcia, it had never occurred to him to ask.

Dave and Bumblebee exchanged a meaningful glance, before Dave replied, “March 22nd.” 

The information caused the corners of Sam’s mouth to turn down.

“When did I… when was the attack?” He asked at last, noting distantly that his voice was perfectly neutral.

“April 28th.” Bumblebee replied, his eyes on Sam’s face.

Sam nodded slowly, taking another bite of his meal to force down the lump in his throat. He had known that he had been captive for almost two years, but contextualizing that knowledge with calendar dates made it seem more real. Less abstract. He took another bite of his food, staring at the creamy orange-colored sauce as he struggled to tamp down on his sudden swing of emotion.

“You alright?” Dave asked softly. Sam exhaled slowly out of his nose before he glanced up at the agent with a forced smile.

“Yeah, I’m alright. It’s strange, putting dates on it. I spent most of my time alone or in stasis.” Sam lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “The only time I knew the date or the time was when Ravage would tell me.”

Dave nodded, his dark eyes sympathetic. They finished the remainder of their meal in relative silence, except for the occasional request to pass napkins or salt. When Dave made to gather up the folders again, Sam looked up at him.

“I’m serious about my offer. I want to help, if I can.”

Dave’s mouth turned up in wan amusement.

“Oh, I can put you to work alright, but you might end up regretting it.”

Sam smirked as he stood up, gathering the dishes and cutlery back onto his tray, “I’m sure you’re a horrible boss, just awful, but I’ve been living under Ratchet’s tyranny for two weeks. I think I’ll be okay.”

Dave threw back his head and laughed, a bright and jovial sound. Sam huffed a laugh of his own in response, before picking up his tray and making his way towards the garbage. Dave followed after him, holding his tray in one hand and tucking the folders securely under his other arm. After they scraped their plates and stacked their dishes, they made their way out of the mess. The three of them walked back towards the Officer’s Section in companionable silence, and when they arrived at Sam’s apartment, Dave waved good-bye as he continued towards the North Quad entrance. Bumblebee stepped forward, pushing open Sam’s door, which unlocked of its own accord.

“Thanks.” Sam said as he walked into the apartment. He kicked off his shoes and padded across the carpet, falling onto the sofa as he dropped his identification badge on the coffee table. He glanced over at Bumblebee as he reached for the remote.

“What’re you doing tonight?”

Bumblebee made his way across the room, sitting down on the arm of the sofa.

“I’m scheduled for patrol at nine, recharge from oh-four-hundred to oh-six-hundred, and then sentry duty for most of the morning.”

Sam navigated to the Netflix application, before glancing at him in surprise.

“Sentry duty?”

“It’s a new rotation for Diego Garcia, but it is a long-standing assignment. I spent a great deal of time standing sentry at the Simfur Temple.”

Sam tilted his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “Is it as boring as it sounds?”

“I would argue that it’s worse.” Bumblebee said, a wry smile curling up the corners of his mouth, “It’s a great deal of waiting around and checking in with my commanding officer. In this case, that would be Prowl.”

“Lucky duck.” Sam said dryly, selecting the Witcher series and resuming the episode. He stared at the screen for a long moment, confused, “I don’t remember any of this.”

“You fell asleep rather quickly. Just re-start the episode, you’re only twenty minutes in.”

Sam obliged him and then settled back against the couch. He reached out a hand, resting it against Bumblebee’s knee and giving him a little squeeze. 

“Where are you right now?”

The holoform smiled at him affectionately, “I’m on my way to the primary storage facility to meet Roddy and Knock Out.”

Sam blinked at him in surprise, “Where’s that?”

“It’s in West Quad, a short distance from the berthing hangar.”

A thought occurred to Sam then, and he directed a curious look up at his bonded, “What’s the range on your holoform?”

“It depends on a great many factors, including the sensitivity of the extended sensory array, the detail of the holoform, the number of nanites utilized per square inch, and antecedent environmental conditions.”

Sam’s lips quirked up, “Ballpark it.”

“A quarter of a mile, give or take.”

“Neat.” Sam replied, and Bumblebee chuckled.

“The neatest.”

When the episode began, Bumblebee slid down to sit on the couch. Sam shifted over, making room for him, before stretching his legs out to rest against the coffee table. They sat there like that, pressed against one another as the story progressed. Sam folded his arms over his chest, his head resting against the back of the couch, as he talked about Drowners and Kikimoras and Roach. Bumblebee listened in amusement, but he did not add to Sam’s running commentary. It was only after Geralt had earned the title the Butcher of Blaviken that Sam fell quiet. They watched the remainder of the episode and most of the next before Bumblebee glanced over at him.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Sam half-turned his head towards him, his lips quirking up sardonically.

“First of all, nice use of the colloquialism.” Sam complimented dryly, “Second of all, there’s not much to say. I’m just… I don’t know. It was nice, today. Helping at the ground bridge, and then before that, preparing for the activation. I liked it.”

Bumblebee reached out a hand, clasping the side of Sam’s face “I’m glad.”

Sam paused the episode, tossing the remote control onto the couch as he turned to fully face the holoform, “I want to go back to school in April.”

Bumblebee went still, his expression furrowing and then smoothing out, “If Ratchet and Karen agree—“

Sam set his mouth in a firm line, “I’m not asking, I’m telling. I’m going to register for classes tomorrow.”

Bumblebee stared at him for a long moment, so perfectly still that it would be impossible to forget that he wasn’t human. Eventually, his thumb brushed over Sam’s cheek and he said, “All right.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, “I’m serious, Bee.”

“I know you are.”

“I have money, I’ll pay my own tuition.”

“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure.”

Sam pinned the holoform with an angry stare, “Are you humoring me?”

“Would you believe me if I said that I wasn’t?” Bumblebee asked mildly, causing Sam to frown. The holoform looked sincere, but Sam could feel his reticence through their bond. Bumblebee’s expression turned wry, and he clarified, “You’re an adult, Sam. No one can prevent you from registering for classes, if that’s what you want to do.”

Sam nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the holoform’s face, “Alright, then. Good.”

“Besides, you’re single-minded when you take an idea into your head.” Bumblebee continued, his voice as dry as a slice of toast, “I’d have better luck arguing with Prowl.”

Sam recognized the teasing for what it was—an implicit indication of unwavering support. Sam felt appreciation bloom in his chest, hot and fierce, and he shoved at the holoform in response.

“Asshole.” He replied, and then his eyes darted up to his face, “…thanks.”

They spent the remainder of the evening together, watching the Witcher as Sam talked about the places on screen that he had visited in-game. Just before nine o’clock, Bumblebee silenced him with a lingering kiss, and then he took his leave with an apologetic smile. After the holoform disappeared, Sam stared at the spot that he had occupied all evening, a deep sense of yearning in his chest. Then, he pushed to his feet and walked into the bedroom. Sam took his time getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth and using the bathroom before pulling on his sleepwear. Then, he filled a glass of water, placing it on the nightstand as he turned down the blankets. When he climbed into bed a moment later, he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders and burrowed his face into the pillow.

The warm, mellow glow of the bedside lamp followed Sam into his dreams.

* * *

Sam became aware of a persistent noise. It was bothersome and distracting, niggling at the edge of his mind. He tried to push it away, to focus on what he was doing, but it was impossible. The noise wormed into his consciousness, unwilling to be ignored.

“Sam. Sam, wake up.”

Between one moment and the next, Sam was awake. He blinked in confusion in the too-bright light, as he looked around in disorientation. He was in a long hallway that was both blindingly white and featureless. All at once, his heart leapt into his mouth as panic and confusion slammed into him.

“You’re alright, you’re safe.” Ratchet reassured him matter-of-factly. The holoform stood at his side, his expression inscrutable, while Ratchet’s bipedal mode crouched down a short distance away. Sam looked around wildly, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“What the—where… _what the fuck_?” He managed, strangled. Ratchet’s holoform reached out with both hands to clasp his elbows. His touch was solid and grounding.

“You were sleepwalking.”

Sam sucked in a harsh breath, and then another, before he could reply. “I don’t sleepwalk.”

“All evidence to the contrary.” Ratchet said dryly, earning him a dirty look, “You’ve been standing here for some time.”

Sam glanced around them, his breathing beginning to slow down as reality reasserted itself. They were standing at the end of a long corridor. In front of him was a white wall that was at once familiar and strange. He frowned faintly, turning to look at Ratchet’s bipedal mode.

“Where are we?”

“West Quad, past energon storage.”

Sam turned back to the wall in front of him. He could just make out the outline of a large door that blended almost seamlessly into the wall. The sight of it caused a strange feeling to wedge itself in his chest—it was urgency and purpose, confusion and uncertainty, all at once.

“What’s behind the door?”

Ratchet slowly shuttered his optics, as his holoform’s expression became closed off and serious.

“Nothing for you, Sam.”

He frowned faintly at the medic’s response. Ratchet was nothing if not forthright, and his ambiguity took Sam aback. His mental presence further exacerbated Sam’s confusion—it was quiet and somber, almost regretful. He glanced up at the door again, his frown deepening. “I know this place.”

In lieu of reply, Ratchet transformed into his alt mode and opened his passenger door. The message was clear, and Sam stared at the search and rescue vehicle for only a moment before climbing into his cab. Ratchet shut the door behind him, and accelerated down the long corridor in silence. Sam rubbed the grit out of his eyes with the pad of his thumb.

“What time is it?” He asked.

“It is half-past five in the morning.”

“Well, good morning, I guess.”

“Good morning.” Ratchet replied dryly.

Sam leaned back against the seat, huffing a quiet sigh as Ratchet made his way through West Quad. They passed Roddy by the energon storage and Ironhide nearer the range, but otherwise the quad was empty. The bridge was similarly deserted, except for the occasional bleary-eyed support staff. By the time that they made it back to North Quad, Sam was wide awake. Ratchet slowed to a stop in front of the large red doors, and Sam climbed out of the cab a moment later.

“I will monitor you more closely during your next sleep cycle. If your somnambulism continues, we will adjust your medication accordingly.”

Sam pushed his hands into the pockets of his sleep pants, “Yeah, sure. Thanks Ratch.”

The search and rescue vehicle flashed his high beams at him, and then turned around and drove back in the direction of West Quad. Sam brushed against him appreciatively, before making his towards the Officer’s Section. He walked slowly, lost in his thoughts. By the time that he arrived at his apartment, Bumblebee’s presence had brightened at the edge of his mind.

 _//Can you open my door?//_ Sam asked, and his words were met with a start of _surprise-confusion_. A moment later, the keypad set into the wall flashed green and the door unlocked with an electronic-sounding chirp. Sam pushed it open, stepping into his apartment with a grimace. Bumblebee’s confusion sharpened into concern, and then a moment later, his holoform materialized a short distance away.

“I’m fine.” Sam said preemptively, making his way into the bedroom.

“Have you ever sleepwalked before?” Bumblebee asked, trailing behind him.

“Nope.” Sam replied, pulling open his closet and grabbing the first clean clothes that he saw. Sam stripped out of his sleepwear, and yanked the soft wool shirt over his head.

“Are you alright?”

“Like I said, I’m fine.” Sam replied, pulling on his jeans and fastening them with quick, efficient movements.

“That’s good.” Bumblebee said, cautiously, and Sam glanced at him in annoyance.

“I said I’m fine.” He said, an edge to his tone, before something occurred to him, “What’s behind the door in West Quad? The one at the end of the hall.”

Bumblebee’s expression did something complicated—his eyebrows drew together and the corners of his mouth pulled down. “There’s no direct translation. It is a memorial of sorts. Perhaps ‘mausoleum’ would be a better term.”

It took a moment for the meaning of Bumblebee’s words to filter through his brain, and then Sam asked, confusedly, “A mausoleum? Like, a tomb?”

Bumblebee nodded, the barest inclination of his head, “Yes. For our fallen.”

The proclamation caused a needle of anxiety to stab through Sam’s heart, “Jazz?”

“And Jetfire, as well as several of the _Ark’s_ complement.”

Sam’s pulse thundered in his ears as he digested the news, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was not a secret, but neither is it an easy topic of conversation.” Bumblebee replied, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. Sam nodded slowly in understanding.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” He said at last.

“You needn’t be. Your curiosity caused no offense.” 

The sincerity, in both his tone and his mental presence, served to soothe his anxiety. Sam uncrossed his arms, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

“I’m heading to the mess for an early breakfast. When are you scheduled for sentry duty?”

“Shortly. I will walk with you, and then I will go.”

“Thanks.” Sam murmured, making his way out of the bedroom. He retrieved his identification badge off the coffee table, and then toed on his shoes. Bumblebee pulled open the door for him a moment later, and then they made their way together through the Officer’s Section. North Quad seemed to wake up as they walked, with fresh-faced officers and sleepy-looking civilian personnel trickling into the halls. 

Sam glanced into the commissary as he passed. The long room was filled with rows of shelves that were stacked neatly with a seemingly random assortment of items—groceries and personal hygiene products and kitchen appliances. Despite the fact that it wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning, a number of people wandered the brightly lit room, filling their baskets with items.

He glanced towards the holoform, “Do you know when my order will get in?”

“Later in the week.” Bumblebee replied promptly, “There’s a cargo plane from Hong Kong slated to arrive on Friday.”

Sam nodded in understanding, and they continued on their way to the mess hall. By the time that they arrived, the large room was partially filled with hungry people, and the lineup extended well beyond the end of the galley. Bumblebee smiled at him sympathetically as Sam took his place at the end of the line.

“I’ll see you later?” Sam asked.

“Of course.” Bumblebee replied promptly, and then a moment later, he was gone.

It took the better part of twenty minutes before Sam made his way through the queue to pay for his breakfast. By the time that he sat down, he had mostly finished his large coffee. He ate his meal in comfortable silence, enjoying both the breakfast wrap and his bagel. When he finished, he gathered his tray and made his way to the receptacles near the doors. The line was longer now, and Sam had to step around a harried-looking Corporal to scrape and stack his plates.

He made his way out of the mess hall and back towards the Officer’s Section. His pace was unhurried and his step was light. When a pair of commissioned officers nodded to him respectfully, Sam found himself bidding them good morning with a warm smile. The response sat on his mind all the way back to his apartment.

Sam spent the next few hours browsing Stanford’s course catalogue on-line. There was a Communications course on _Media Psychology_ and another on _Deliberative Democracy_ that looked promising. He made a note of them and then navigated to the Geography section. To his disappointment, he found that there were no political geography courses offered in the Spring, but there was a _Geography of Southeast Asia_ course that seemed interesting. He took a note of their course numbers and, deciding that two courses was enough for the term, he scratched out _Media Psycholog_ y. He would take it in the Fall if he had room in his schedule.

It was just after ten o’clock when Sam felt the Creator bond _shiver_ in his mind. He closed his laptop and braced himself, expecting a haranguing from the medic about his decision to enroll in classes. To his surprise, however, Ratchet merely relayed the message that Optimus wanted to speak with him. Sam retrieved his cell phone—there was indeed a missed call from _Optimus Prime_ displayed on the lock screen—and his identification badge, before making his way out of the apartment and towards the North Quad entrance.

It was a long walk from the Officer’s Section to Prime’s office, and Sam was out of breath by the time that he stepped through the doorway thirty minutes later. The office was just the same as Sam remembered it, with an assortment of both alien and human furnishings. Optimus sat at the large desk in the center of the room, but the Autobot leader stood as Sam approached.

“Hey Optimus.” He greeted apologetically, walking into the office, “Sorry I missed your call.”

The Autobot leader moved to stand in front of him before lowering down to one knee and extending a servo towards him. Sam hesitated for only a moment before climbing onto the proffered palm. Optimus brought him close to his chest and stood, before depositing Sam on the broad, flat surface of his desk. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets as Optimus stepped around the desk and took his seat.

“I have given your request due consideration. If you agree to meet with her only in the company of Ultra Magnus or Red Alert, then I will consent to you accompanying Ravage while she is on Diego Garcia.”

“Really? Thank-you, Optimus.” Sam replied, his eyebrows rising to his hairline, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Optimus azure optics warmed minutely, “Oh? What were you expecting?”

“A lecture, probably.” Sam admitted with a laugh, “I figured that you caught wind of my decision to enroll in courses this summer.”

“I am aware of your decision, yes.” Optimus acknowledged, inclining his helm, “But it is not my place to lecture you on what is an inherently personal matter.”

“Can you do me a favor and pass that message along to Ratchet?” Sam asked dryly, “I don’t think he got the memo.”

“Ratchet has your best interests at heart, Sam.” Optimus admonished gently.

“Oh, I know.” Sam replied, “I can read him like a book.”

Optimus quirked a brow ridge, an expression that made him look simultaneously exasperated and amused, “Is that so?”

“Sure.” Sam agreed cheerfully, “I’m his favorite.”

In the back of his mind, at the very edge of his awareness, Sam felt the mental equivalent of a scoff. Sam’s smile curled wider and he pushed _mischief-amusement_ at the medic as hard as he could, knowing full well the inevitable outcome of his actions. He felt Ratchet’s disapproval the moment before a stinging mental _rap_ lit across his mind. Sam winced in response, raising a hand to press at his temples. Optimus’ expression became knowing in an instant, but he wisely chose not to comment.

 _Typical politician._ Sam thought, rubbing his forehead as he pinned Optimus with a sardonic look.

“I stand by what I said.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, this is it. The next chapter is the last of Tribulations. Thanks for sticking by me all of this time!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, we've reached the end of Tribulations. Thank-you all so much for your continued enthusiasm and support. At this point, I'm writing this story as much for you guys as I am for myself. Please see the end-notes for details on the next installment of the story.

To Sam’s surprise, Optimus did not dismiss him right away. Instead, the Autobot leader invited him to sit down in the human-sized chair that had been placed on his desk. It was the same chair that Sam had occupied during their lessons on Cybertron. Although it had been two years since he last sat in it, and although other people had certainly used it more than him, he still thought of it as ‘his’ chair. He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the large desk and settling into the seat. It was a cushioned armchair, upholstered in neutral gray, and it was comfortable as hell, even after all this time.

After Sam was settled, Optimus surprised him for a second time by asking about his courses. He stared at the Autobot leader as he slowly replied, “I’m taking a communications course on _Deliberative Democracy_ and a course on the _Geography of Southeast Asia._ ” Sam’s mouth twitched into a wry smile, “I assumed that you already knew.”

Optimus’ optics warmed with good humor and he inclined his head, as though in admission.

Sam laughed lightly, relaxing into the chair, “Caught you out, huh? What’s this about, then?”

Optimus ex-vented in amusement, before leaning back in his own chair, mirroring Sam’s posture.

“I have a proposal for you.” Optimus began, and his contemplative tone caught Sam’s attention as much as his words, “If you are determined to resume your schoolwork, then I believe it would be prudent that we also resume our talks.”

“About Cybertron?” Sam asked, surprised by the Autobot leader’s suggestion.

Optimus nodded solemnly, “If you wish to formally accept your role as our Ambassador, then there is a great deal for you to learn.” 

Sam tilted his head to the side as he considered Optimus’ words. His time on the _Nemesis_ had taught him that he knew far less about Cybertronian history and customs than he’d realized—and even less so about the Decepticons. It was not a difficult decision to make.

“Yeah, sure. I’d like that.” Sam said, and then he added hesitantly, “I have questions.”

“Of course, Sam.” Optimus replied solemnly, “I will tell you whatever I can about our history, our politics, our religion—anything that you might wish to know, so long as the information is mine to share.”

Sam froze in his seat, as Optimus’ words evoked a memory of Megatron making a similar promise. The association was so strong that Sam could almost taste the recycled air of the _Nemesis_ , could almost feel the cold against his skin. His eyes dropped to the table in front of him, and he shivered from head to toe. Sam was aware of Optimus’ regard, and it took him a moment before he could quietly say, “But you can’t promise that I’ll like what I learn.”

The Autobot leader stared down at him, before slowly shuttering his optics, “No, I cannot.”

Sam swallowed thickly at Optimus’ tone, which was equal parts serious and solemn. He rubbed a palm over his arms, chasing away the goosebumps that had risen over his skin. Optimus watched him in for a long moment, before ex-venting quietly.

“If you have a question, Sam, please ask it.”

Sam had many questions, but only one came to mind at that moment.

“Did you watch the gladiatorial fights? In Tarn?”

“I did.” Optimus replied without hesitation, “To my shame.”

Sam glanced up at him, a frown tightening his face, “Why did you go?”

“I visited the gladiatorial arena for the first time with Alpha Trion. I was honored to be there, at his side. It was not until I watched the first spark be extinguished in front of us that I realized the full brutality of the games.” Optimus shook his head faintly, his mouth plates thinning in displeasure, “I was very naïve.”

Silence stretched between them, tenuous and uncertain, before Sam finally asked, “Was it Megatron?”

Optimus glanced at him, as though in surprise, “No. It was Barricade.”

“Barricade?” Sam repeated, unsure he had heard the Autobot leader correctly. He had not known that the shock trooper had once been a gladiator.

“He was one of many slaves drawn to Megatron’s cause.” Optimus replied, “For obvious reasons.”

Sam’s gaze dropped to his lap, and he began picking at the skin around his thumbnail. After a long moment he asked, “Who did he kill?”

“I do not know their name. They were a Praegenarii—that is, an opening act. A warm-up.” By the time that he finished speaking, Optimus’ voice had turned grim, and the sound of it caused Sam to shiver anew. The room was quiet as they both reflected on Optimus’ words.

“When did you first watch Megatron?” Sam asked eventually.

“It was at an exhibition match for the fête of the Primes, a festival held every thirteen stellar cycles. I attended with Alpha Trion and Sentinel Prime.” Optimus replied, his voice strangely reflective, “I had heard about him before, of course. He was famous by then.”

Sam stared up at him for a long time, thinking about his next question. He rolled it around in his mouth, testing it out, before speaking. “Did you go specifically to watch Megatron fight?”

Optimus’ optics seemed to sharpen in surprise. He stared down at Sam, as though considering his question.

“Yes, although he was known as Megatronus then.” He replied at last.

Sam looked up from his hands to meet Optimus’ optics as he asked, plainly, “What was it like?”

Optimus returned his gaze for a long moment, his expression suddenly fathomless.

“It was… extraordinary.”

* * *

Shortly thereafter, Optimus steered their conversation to more neutral territory. He told Sam about the feasts and festivities that were held during the fête of the Primes, which lasted for thirteen days. The fête began with nine days of prayer and reflection, led by the Prime, followed by four days of celebration. The celebration had no figurehead, Sam learned, as each district honored the holiday in its own way. In Vos, there was a great show of aerial skill in which all of the royal houses competed, and in Kaon, the lower castes were given four days of respite from their labor. Sam listened in rapt attention, his chin propped up on his hand.

“What about Iacon?” He asked, curiously.

Optimus’ optics softened, becoming far away.

“Iacon was a city of light. They celebrated the fête with fireworks from dusk until dawn every night.” Optimus seemed to come back to himself, but when he spoke again, his voice was sorrowful, “It was very beautiful. I believe you would have enjoyed it.” 

Sam’s throat thickened with unexpected emotion, and all that he could think to say was, “I’m sorry.”

Optimus inclined his helm, and shortly thereafter, called their meeting to an end. As Sam walked back towards North Quad, with their conversation weighing heavily on his mind, he was struck with a sudden, intense desire for fresh air. His pace quickened, and he went first to his apartment to change his clothes and dig his sunglasses out of a drawer. Then, he made his way to the lift in the receiving room.

It was the better part of an hour later that Sam found himself sprawled out on the beach a short distance away from Simpson Point. The sky was a perfect, pristine blue, and the sunshine was remarkably hot for so early in the day. He laid on his back, hands pillowed under his head and bare feet buried in the sand. Less than six feet away, the ocean lapped serenely at the shore. It was quiet except for the distant sound of heavy trucks rumbling over the road and the occasional screech of gulls.

Sam laid there for a long while, drowsily soaking in vitamin D, when a shadow fell over him.

“You’re harshing my tan.” He said dryly.

“I’m glad to see you too.”

Sam squinted his eyes open to see Bumblebee crouched down beside him in his bipedal mode. He smiled affectionately at the yellow scout.

“Hello you. I thought you had sentry duty?”

“I did. It’s almost noon.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise, “Is it? Already? I must have drifted off.”

“You did.” Bee confirmed, reaching out a servo to trail a digit down his bare arm, “You’ll be sore tonight.”

Sam raised his arm to see that his skin was turning pink.

“I forgot sunblock.” He admitted.

“So I see.” Bumblebee replied, “Were you in a hurry to leave after your meeting with Optimus?”

Sam tilted his head, “That’s a loaded question.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping.” Bumblebee replied, although Sam hadn’t suspected that he had been, “I could feel your melancholy.”

Sam’s lips thinned in a grimace, and he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Yeah. Optimus and I talked about Cybertron.”

“Oh?”

Sam shrugged, barely more than a twitch of his shoulders, “It was some heavy stuff. I don’t know, I just wanted some fresh air.”

Bumblebee seemed to understand, for he smoothly changed the subject, “It’s a nice day for a walk.”

“Yeah.” Sam said, drawing his legs up and resting his forearms on his knees, “Or a swim.”

His words caused the scout’s optics to brighten with some indefinable emotion. When Bumblebee spoke, his voice was soft. “It’s been a long time since you’ve wanted to swim.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sam replied, his lips quirking up as he stared out over the cerulean water. Then, he pushed himself up to his feet and glanced over at the scout, “Anything I need to watch out for?”

Bumblebee swung his helm towards the ocean, and after a long moment, he chirped in the negative.

“Nothing that my sensors can detect. The energy barrier extends less than one hundred feet into the water, so don’t go too far.”

Sam laughed lightly as he pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the beach beside his socks and shoes.

“If I get eaten by a shark, tell my mother that I love her.”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in amusement, but he did not reply. Sam padded across the beach, making his way towards the water. When he stepped onto the foreshore, the water broke over the sand and rushed around his ankles. It was lukewarm and comfortable. He stood there for a moment, letting the waves wash back and forth over his feet, before he waded into the water. He walked slowly, stepping around the few rocks and pieces of broken reef that lay scattered on the bottom. Once the water was around his hips, he turned to smile at the scout—before stopping in his tracks. Bumblebee was a short distance away, standing in water up past his knee struts. He gleamed in the early afternoon sunlight—the yellow of his armor and the blue of his optics almost impossibly bright against the backdrop of white sand.

Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest, and he murmured, sincerely, “You’re beautiful.”

Bumblebee’s optics warmed with affection, and he whistled at him gently in response. Sam stared at the scout for a moment longer, as something occurred to him. He chewed on his bottom lip, unsure whether or how to articulate the thought. Bumblebee watched him in silence, before giving him a gentle _nudge_ through their bond.

“You know I love you, right?” Sam said at last, trying to explain, “You, not your holoform.” 

Bumblebee’s expression became fond as he took a step further into the ocean, “I understand, Sam.”

“Do you?” Sam asked, frustrated by his inability to articulate the insecurity that he felt, “I wouldn’t want you to think that because— Look, I was attracted to you first. Your bipedal mode, I mean.”

“It’s alright, Sam.” Bumblebee reassured him again, “I’m not offended by the affection that you show my holoform. You’re an organic species, it’s only to be expected.”

Sam felt his shoulders relax as relief washed through him, “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Bumblebee replied amusedly, “Your concern is unwarranted. My holoform is as much a part of me as my chassis or my spark.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Sam replied with a quiet laugh.

Bumblebee smiled at him affectionately—and then swept his servo through the ocean, sending up a curtain of water that caught Sam full in the face. He spluttered in shocked surprise, and Bee just looked at him, optics bright and amused, as though in expectation.

“That is dirty pool.” Sam laughed, water dripping into his eyes. 

“Nonsense. The water is pristine.”

“That’s not what—never mind.” 

They spent the better part of an hour horsing around together in the water. It was easily the most carefree and relaxed that Sam had been since before the attack. As he dove into the water from Bumblebee’s servo for the umpteenth time, however, Ratchet’s metal presence _brightened_ disapprovingly. Sam sighed to himself, pushing off the sandy bottom and breaking the surface of the water a moment later.

“Time’s up.” He announced to Bumblebee. The scout chirped at him understandingly, straightening to his full height. Sam turned his attention inwards towards the Creator bond, only to find that Ratchet’s presence was edged with _impatience._

_//I’m going, I’m going, keep your pants on.//_ Sam said, swimming for the shore with an easy sidestroke. Once he got to the shallows, he stood up and wiped the water off his face.

 _//For future reference, ‘low impact exercise’ does not include an hour swimming in the mid-afternoon sun.//_ Ratchet replied, testily, _//Get something to eat.//_

Sam rolled his eyes as he made his way out of the water and up the beach. He wrung his shorts out as well as he could without taking them off, before bending down to grab his shirt. He pulled on the soft material, and then sat down to do the same with his shoes and socks. Bumblebee made his way up the foreshore after him, water cascading from numerous parts of his chassis. Sam pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, before smiling at the scout.

“Good luck getting all the sand and salt out of your chassis.”

Bumblebee whistled at him amusedly, “I can get most of it when I transform. I’ll get the rest in the wash racks after we return.”

The scout’s words drew him up short. Sam knew that there was a wash racks in West Quad, of course. It was located just beyond the three berthing hangars, right before storage. Although the Autobots were capable of removing a great deal of debris themselves, with either their servos or their self-repair subroutines, any build-up that was caught in their finer components had to be cleansed eventually. Sam also knew that washing was communal among peer groups, and mechanoids helped each other with the task. Bumblebee often went to the ‘racks with Cliffjumper or Hot Rot, for instance, and Will had gone with Ironhide on more than one occasion to help work the grit out of his hydraulics. Yet despite that, Sam had only ever washed Bumblebee in his garage in Tranquility—and even then, it was an action born of teenaged vanity as much as it was companionship. For some reason, the idea of watching the Autobots bathe together had felt like a violation. Bumblebee had found his sense of human modesty amusing, while Hot Rod found it baffling. After all, the cavalier argued, Lennox had no issues walking into the 'racks like he owned the place. Sam had shrugged and attributed their differences to Will’s military background. There wasn’t a lot of privacy to be had in the middle of the Qatari desert.

Now, the reminder that Bumblebee would be heading to the ‘racks caused a twist of anxiety and shame that had nothing to do with polite convention. Sam stood in silence for long enough that Bumblebee’s amusement faded away, replaced with something nearer to concern.

“Sam?”

“It’s nothing.” Sam lied, brushing the sand off his rapidly drying legs, “Can we head back? I need to get something to eat before Ratchet has a temper tantrum.”

Bumblebee looked at him for a long moment. If his expression was anything to go by, he wasn’t buying the bullshit that Sam was selling. Yet, he did not press him for the truth, either. Instead, Bumblebee made his way towards the road and then transformed into his alt mode. As soon as his wheels touched the packed dirt road, his entire frame trembled violently from bumper to bumper. A moment later, a collection of detritus fell from his under carriage onto the road with a wet-sounding splatter.

Sam stepped up to his chassis, murmuring in appreciation as Bumblebee opened the door for him. He slid into the cab without another word, and within moments, they were accelerating back towards downtown. They had not even gotten back to the paved road, however, before Sam sat straight up in his seat.

“Wait!” He said, urgently. Bumblebee braked, his mental presence colored with _confusion_ and _surprise_. Sam rested a hand against the steering wheel, as he stared steadfastly through the windshield in the direction of the airfield. In the distance, the _Ark_ glinted in the afternoon sunlight, “I want to see Ravage.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam felt a swell of _disapproval_ in his mind—from both the spark-bond and the Creator bond. He narrowed his eyes at the dashboard, suddenly defensive, but Bumblebee spoke before he had the chance.

“You should get something to eat.”

“I’ll eat when I get back to the Hive.”

“You’re dehydrated and sunburned. I’m sure Ravage can wait until tomorrow.”

Sam grit his teeth in irritation, “Bumblebee, either turn around or pull over.”

The scout was silent for several moments, and then he pulled to the side of the road. For a split second, Sam thought that he was actually going to open the driver’s side door, but instead he executed a three-point turn and headed in the direction of the airfield. Sam opened his mouth to say thank-you, but stopped short at the feeling of his bonded’s tumultuous mood. There was irritation, disapproval, and concern, which Sam understood, but the feeling of possessiveness took him by surprise.

They drove in silence towards the _Ark_. Neither Bumblebee nor Ratchet said a word during the drive, and as such, Sam was feeling both guilty and uncertain by the time they pulled to a stop in front of the loading ramp. Sam turned towards the driver’s side door and, when it stayed shut, he grasped the handle and pushed it open himself. His irritation was revived by Bumblebee’s passive aggression, and he walked up the ramp without a backwards glance. Despite his annoyance, Sam was quietly relieved when the scout transformed and followed along behind him.

Sam made his way through the loading bay, into the long corridor beyond. He had no idea where Ravage was being housed, but he knew that Ultra Magnus’ office was near the brig. The _Ark_ was just as busy as it had been when Sam visited the clinic to see Knock Out. The air was loud with the hum of machinery, the clang of metal on metal, and voices shouting to one another. People stood or crouched at various points along the way, working on wiring or soldering. They glanced at him as he passed, but he was otherwise ignored.

As they got nearer to the large atrium in the center of the ship, Sam’s heartrate started to pick up. The cavernous space was crisscrossed with walkways at varying levels, and great spires of metal rose from the depths of the atrium and extended towards the ceiling. It was beautiful, and intimidating, and otherworldly, all at once. It was also nothing like the economy of space that was employed in the _Nemesis’_ design _._

He hesitated at the threshold of the atrium, craning his head to take in the sight, when he heard a familiar voice call out, “Good evening, Sam.”

Sam jerked in surprise, turning to his left to see Ultra Magnus standing in the corridor that led to the brig. He smiled hesitantly at the City Commander, aware of the way that his heart tripped over into double-time at the sight of him.

“Hey Ultra Magnus.” Sam greeted, pushing his hands into the pockets of his damp shorts, “How are you?”

The large mechanoid stared down at him, his optics glowing brightly in the dim light of the atrium. Despite the lower level of illumination, Sam could still make out Ultra Magnus’ red, white, and blue plating. The City Commander was tall and broad, almost as commanding in presence as Optimus. The thought caused a swell of curiosity, and Sam smiled at the large mechanoid.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Optimus?”

The question seemed to take Ultra Magnus by surprise, for his stern demeanor softened fractionally in amusement.

“It’s come up.” He replied, dryly.

Bumblebee whistled at the City Commander, a series of short, rolling chirps, as he came to stand beside Sam. His bonded looked down at him, as he explained, “Prime and Ultra Magnus shared a crèche.”

Sam glanced up at him, confusion furrowing his brow, “…What?”

He felt a flicker of _amusement_ through their bond, which softened the complicated mixture of _disapproval-exasperation_ that emanated from the winter-white glow at the edge of Sam’s mind.

“They were sparked at the same time by the same Creators.” Bumblebee explained, “In human terms, you could say that they are brothers.”

“That is an inept analogy.” Ultra Magnus replied, his voice a deep rumble that echoed across the atrium.

Sam’s lips quirked up at the dry tone of his voice, “Which one of you is older?”

Ultra Magnus looked down at him, his faceplates doing something complicated. Eventually, he replied, “Prime was sparked a deca-cycle before I—a fact that he frequently boasted during our youth.”

“Classic older brother, huh?” Sam replied as his smile curled wider, “I mean, I assume so. I’m an only child.”

Bumblebee whistled at him in amusement, but Ultra Magnus did not visibly react to the question. Instead, the City Commander pinned him with a searching look.

“I find it unlikely that you have come to discuss my on-lining.” He said, polite but to the point, “Prime has given permission for you to attend the cassette. Do you wish me to take you now?”

Sam felt a twist of anxiety in his gut at the question, but he nodded decisively. Ultra Magnus inclined his helm in acknowledgement, before turning and striding across the large atrium. Sam followed behind him, walking as quickly as his legs would allow. Bumblebee trailed behind him, as silent as a shadow.

Ultra Magnus walked along the mezzanine that circled the outside of the atrium. Sam got as close to the edge as he dared—there were no handrails—and glanced down. The chasm was at least four stories deep, and it extended above them for another four or five stories more. The sheer enormity of the space gave Sam a strange twist, and he hastily stepped back into the center of the walkway. The walls of the atrium, as with the rest of the ship, were etched in complicated patterns that glowed a faint blue. Sam reached out to trail his hand along the wall as he walked. The metal was cool beneath his fingertips.

Ultra Magnus turned down a long corridor that branched off the mezzanine. It was quieter here, with the din of voices and machinery fading in the distance. Red Alert and Smokescreen stood halfway down the long hall, each on either side of a nondescript door that stood open. The Security Director nodded to Ultra Magnus as he approached, and then his optics fell on Sam.

“Hey Red Alert.” He greeted, and then he forced himself to add, “Hello Smokescreen.”

The Autobots nodded to Sam in greeting, as Ultra Magnus turned to regard him.

“The cassette is inside. Prime has not provided any limitations regarding your visit.” The City Commander said, “Regardless, I advise you to exercise due caution. We will be here, if you have need of us.”

Sam nodded faintly, keenly aware of the weight of regard that was directed his way. At his acknowledgement, Ultra Magnus stepped aside to reveal the small hangar within. The room was dark, almost perfectly so, and the thin light from the hallway extended only a few meters beyond the doorway before dissipating into the shadows. Sam endeavored to keep the uncertainty that he was feeling off his face as he squared his shoulders and stepped into the hangar. He walked several paces into the room and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The room was of middling size, not much larger than Sam’s apartment, and bare except for three berths that lined the back wall. He could just make out Ravage’s sleek form stretched across the nearest berth; as he watched, her optic flared open, illuminating her body in weak red light.

“Hello again, Sam.” She rumbled pleasantly, and Sam was suddenly painfully aware that this was only the second time that she had referred to him by name.

“Hello Ravage.” He replied, stepping further into the room.

Ravage pushed herself to her feet, before coiling her legs beneath her and leaping gracefully onto the floor. As she padded across the room, Sam became aware of Bumblebee moving to stand behind him. The scout’s mental presence was closed off and reticent, but Sam could feel his tension through their bond. Ravage stopped less than an arm’s length away, settling on her haunches and fixing him with her singular, ruby optic.

“You have been in the ocean. I can smell the salt water on you.”

Sam lowered into a loose crouch, his arms resting on his knees as he balanced on the balls of his feet. At this height, they were almost at eye-level with one another.

“I went swimming.”

“Swimming.” The symbiont repeated, and Sam could hear the amusement in her voice, “That is a uniquely organic pastime.”

“I like it. It’s nice to cool off in the water.”

“That is a sentiment our species share, although the execution differs markedly.”

“I remember that you like the heat.” He said softly, “You should enjoy Diego Garcia.”

Ravage rumbled, low in her chassis. It was a strangely fond sound, even though it was coming from a predator.

“Nova Cronum was far warmer, but yes, I am enjoying your island. It is pleasant.” Ravage tilted her head, which lent her a quizzical appearance, “And you, little Prime? Have you been enjoying the island since your return?”

Sam knew that her question was a loaded one, and his heart started to beat faster in his chest.

“Certainly more than I enjoyed the _Nemesis._ ” He replied neutrally.

“Yes, I would imagine so.” Ravage said wryly, “Have you been well?”

Sam suddenly understood her meaning, and he could feel a brilliant flush spread across his face. He wished that the darkness could hide his discomfort, but he knew that she could see him perfectly well despite the low light.

“I’m well. I’m… better.” He replied, his voice soft and stilted. He couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘suicidal’, but he was sure that she would understand him.

“That is good. My Master will be pleased to hear it.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe at the mention of Soundwave, and behind him, Bumblebee made a low sound. It was a warning and a threat, both. Ravage glanced briefly over Sam’s shoulder in his direction, but otherwise she did not react.

“How I’m doing is none of his business.” Sam bit back, fully aware that he sounded angry and defensive.

Ravage inclined her helm minutely, as though in apology, “My Master and I disagree with you.” 

Sam’s flush deepened as his face was suffused with heat, but before he could reply, she continued, “Perhaps one day, after all of this is over, you will have the opportunity to know him as I do.”

Ravage’s tone was contemplative and thoughtful, and it drew Sam up short.

“No offense, Ravage, but I know as much as I need to know about Soundwave.”

The cybercat’s expression cooled noticeably, and Sam had the distinct impression that he had disappointed her. He confused himself by wincing apologetically. Ravage regarded him for a long moment, and then stepped forward to rub her face across Sam’s chest. The motion wasn’t necessarily gentle, and it rocked him back onto his heels. He steadied himself with one hand on her shoulder, and the other hand flat against the floor, as Bumblebee hissed something angry-sounding in Cybertronian.

“It may surprise you to know that my Master is the reason you are enjoying the heat and not languishing in the medical bay on the _Nemesis._ ” Ravage murmured, as she stepped away from him.

Sam frowned faintly, “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“The reality of the matter is not affected by your belief—or lack thereof.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that what is thought to be true is true in its consequences.” Sam returned flatly. Ravage’s optic brightened in amusement, and she inclined her helm, conceding the point. Sam looked at her for a long while before asking, softly, “Can I trust you?”

“No, little Prime.” Ravage replied, but her voice was kind, “Although perhaps not for the reasons that you might expect.”

Sam stared at her in confusion, trying to puzzle out the meaning of her words. Before he could reply, however, Ravage pushed up onto her feet.

“Your blood sugar is low, you should refuel.” Ravage admonished gently. As she turned back towards the berth, she glanced at Bumblebee. It was a brief look—if Sam had blinked, he would have missed it—but he could not miss the swell of _outrage_ and _offense_ that rocked through him. He looked back at Bumblebee in surprise, only to see that the scout had narrowed his optics at the symbiont. The expression on his face was so uncharacteristically hostile that Sam straightened up and stepped close to his chassis, pressing a hand against the warm metal.

_//What is it? What happened?//_

Bumblebee did not reply, but after a long moment, he angled his helm to look down at Sam.

“It’s time to go.”

Sam nodded faintly, before glancing over his shoulder at Ravage. The symbiont had resumed her spot on the berth, stretched out and seemingly relaxed, as she watched them closely.

“Do you need anything?” Sam asked, without moving away from Bumblebee’s chassis.

“I do not.” She replied, shuttering her optic slowly, “I look forward to speaking with you again, little Prime.”

Bumblebee did not wait for Sam to reply, before pressing a servo against his back and ushering him out of the room. Sam went without complaint, fully aware of the tension in every line of Bumblebee’s body. As they stepped into the corridor, Red Alert and Smokescreen turned to regard them. Ultra Magnus was nowhere to be seen.

“Thank-you.” Sam said, directing his words towards Red Alert. The Security Director inclined his helm in response, and then Bumblebee was leading him down the long corridor. To Sam’s combined surprise and irritation, Smokescreen accompanied them. They walked together in silence until they reached the atrium, and then the tactician turned his helm slightly to regard him.

“Did your visit serve its purpose?” He asked.

“I don’t know.” Sam replied truthfully, “I hope so.”

Smokescreen nodded, a brief jerk of his helm, “You should not be so familiar with Ravage. Deception is in her nature.”

Although he sounded sincere, there was something about his tone that raised Sam’s hackles. It was overly polite, just this edge of saccharine, and clearly condescending. Sam could feel the tension gathering in his shoulders as he replied, stiffly, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Smokescreen glanced at him, seemingly surprised by his tone, “I meant no offense, Sam. She is the embodiment of guile, I would not expect you to understand.”

“I understand.” Sam replied, his tone only just polite.

Smokescreen made an exasperated sound, “Are all humans so ornery? Or is it just you?”

“Not all humans.” Sam replied coolly, as something spiteful possessed him to add, “Maybe all Primes, though.”

Smokescreen stiffened from helm to pede, his optics widening in shocked outrage. Bumblebee whistled at him warningly, a long, low note that carried across the large atrium.

“You are very forward.” Smokescreen managed, and it sounded as though the words were being dragged from his vocoder, “Do not assume that you have the right—“

“I’m a Prime, I have _every right_.” Sam snapped, losing his temper, “If it rubs your dogma the wrong way, then you can take it up with Optimus. Maybe your demi-gods gave him more information than they gave me!”

Smokescreen stopped in his tracks, all expression wiped off his face. He stared at Sam in silence for a long moment, before inclining his helm and turning on his heel to walk back the way they came. Sam watched him go, with narrowed eyes and tense shoulders. It wasn’t until Bumblebee rested a servo against his back that Sam tore his eyes away from the receding tactician to glance at his bonded.

“He had it coming.” Sam muttered, defensively.

“He did.” Bumblebee agreed, gesturing with his other servo to the long corridor in front of them, “Come on. You should eat.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he let himself be swept along in Bumblebee’s wake, “I’m not hangry.” 

“Of course you’re not.” Bumblebee replied, and there was a touch of amusement in his voice, “You often yell at tacticians for refusing to acknowledge your rank as a Prime.”

Sam snorted softly, but he could hear the truth of Bumblebee’s words.

“Yeah, alright. It wasn’t my best moment.” Sam said dryly, “But it sure felt good. Almost as good as the time that I called Barricade an asshole.”

Bumblebee stiffened, looking down at him with dawning disbelief, “You did what?”

A grin slowly spread across Sam’s face, “You didn’t hear about that? It’s how I got this bitchin’ scar.”

“Sam.” Bumblebee admonished, his disbelief edging closer to exasperation, “That’s not funny.”

“Come on, it’s a little funny. And besides, you should see the other guy.”

* * *

Bumblebee brought him to the dining hall, insisting that Sam’s meal couldn’t wait until they got back to the Hive. The holoform followed Sam into the large building, and sat with him as they waited for his food. Sam stared at the large flat screen television that was mounted to the wall over the bar. It was tuned to ESPN, which was re-playing clips from the Superbowl that aired earlier in the week. Sam groaned softly as he learned that the 49’ers blew a double-digit lead. As he watched the re-play of the Chief’s winning goal, he flagged down the server and asked for a glass of whatever they had on tap. The beer arrived with his plate of fully loaded nachos, and Sam nursed his drink as he watched clips of the game and listened to the host’s scathing commentary.

Later that evening, Sam sprawled out on the sofa in his apartment as the television droned in the background. His head rested on Bumblebee’s lap, as the holoform lazily traced glyphs onto his chest. Sam wore only his sleep pants, having removed his shirt in order to apply the gel that Ratchet had brought for his sunburn. His arms were the worst, but his face wasn’t much better. The skin had deepened to an off-red color and was hot to the touch. Bumblebee had been quietly sympathetic as he applied the gel to Sam’s back, but Ratchet had been true to form, harshly criticizing everything from Sam’s memory to his judgment. Sam had weathered the medic’s temper without a word of complaint, which seemed to mollify him somewhat. By the time that the holoform had disappeared, the Creator bond was a great deal calmer.

Sam shifted against the cushions, stretching out his legs to prop his heels on the arm of the couch. Bumblebee carded his fingers through Sam’s hair, and Sam hummed softly in response. Bumblebee repeated the motion again, pulling lightly on his hair as he did so.

“Mm. That feels nice.”

“I can tell.” Bumblebee replied, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice.

“I should shower before I go to bed.” Sam murmured, and then he sighed softly as Bumblebee grazed his nails over Sam’s scalp.

“Probably.” Bumblebee agreed, but he didn’t stop combing his fingers through Sam’s hair.

“Yeah, probably.” Sam echoed drowsily, “I’ll get right on that.”

Sam could feel his body getting heavier as sleep edged closer, but he wanted nothing more than to stay in that moment, with the television playing quietly in the background as Bumblebee teased pleasant shivers from him. He sighed in contentment, and let his eyes drift closed. 

“Sam.”

Sam jerked awake, his heart hammering in his chest as fear and confusion coursed through him. Rather than his living room, he woke to find himself in the long, white corridor in West Quad. He stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his feet, but strong hands caught him by the shoulders. Sam made a strangled noise as he twisted in the person’s grasp, and it took him a long moment before he recognized Optimus’ holoform.

“You’re alright, Sam.” Optimus murmured, calm and composed, “Breathe.”

Sam became aware of the way that he was wheezing short little gasps of air. With conscious effort, he sucked in a deep breath through his nose, held it, and then exhaled through his mouth. Optimus squeezed his shoulders gently, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his skin. As his fear began to recede, Sam became aware of his discomfort. He was dressed the same as he had been before he fell asleep, in lounge pants and nothing else. Apparently, he had walked all the way to West Quad without a shirt or shoes. 

“Fuck.” Sam rasped, folding his arms over his chest self-consciously. Both Ratchet and Optimus were crouched nearby in their bipedal forms. The medic’s expression was one of clinical concern, but Optimus’ gaze was piercing in its intensity. Sam felt a blush steal across his face as his fear and confusion were replaced by mortification in an instant.

“Where’s Bumblebee?” He managed to ask.

“He is on patrol. It is just after midnight.” Optimus replied, his optics never leaving Sam’s face.

Sam nodded faintly, rubbing his palms over his arms, before looking at Ratchet.

“So, are you going to change up my medication or what?” Sam asked, trying to mask the uncertainty that he felt.

Rather than answer him, Ratchet glanced in Optimus’ direction. The Autobot leader looked at him for a long moment, before he asked, “You told Ratchet that you knew this place. What did you mean?”

Sam frowned at the strange non-sequitur, “I was half asleep, I have no idea what I said to him.”

“Please, indulge me.” Optimus intoned gravely, “How do you know this place?”

Sam’s frown deepened and he raised a shoulder in a shrug, “I don’t know it, not really. I’ve never been here before last night.”

“But?” Optimus prompted gently.

Sam set his jaw, aware of how ridiculous it sounded, “But I’ve dreamt about it.”

Ratchet’s expression sharpened with concern, but Optimus pointed a quelling look in his direction before turning back to Sam.

“What do you remember about your dreams?” Optimus asked, and Sam could tell by the tone of his voice that his inquiry was not motivated by idle curiosity.

“Is something wrong?” Sam asked nervously.

“Please, Sam. It may be important. What do you remember?” Optimus replied.

“I don’t remember much. I never do.” Sam said slowly, “Just glimpses, like polaroids. A white corridor, dark shadows, the door.” Sam’s voice trailed off and he added, uncertainly, “I remember the way I feel, though. It’s always the same.”

“Yes?” Optimus asked, patient and encouraging.

“Urgent. Anxious. Like there’s somewhere I need to be.”

Optimus shuttered his optics slowly, before ex-venting a soft sigh. The Autobot leader straightened to his full height as his holoform disappeared. He stared down at Sam for a long moment, as though in contemplation, before he turned his helm towards the end of the corridor. Sam followed his gaze to see the outline of the large, white door. As Sam watched, the door _shimmered_ like a mirage in the desert, and then it disappeared.

He looked from the large, empty doorway to Optimus. The Autobot leader met his gaze and said, with a solemnity that Sam did not understand, “Please, come with me.”

Sam felt a spear of trepidation lodge itself through his chest as his heart kicked into double-time.

“What, now?”

Optimus inclined his helm and then turned on his heel, striding through the large doorway. Sam turned anxious eyes towards Ratchet, and reached for him across their bond.

_//Ratchet, what’s happening?//_

The medic looked down at him, his azure optics glowing with emotion.

 _//It is not my place to say.//_ He replied enigmatically, _//Go along. I’ll be right here.//_

Ratchet’s words only served to sharpen his anxiety, and it was with a great deal of apprehension that Sam followed Optimus into the dark room at the end of the corridor. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, however, his uneasiness washed away, replaced with breathless wonder. The room was large, perhaps the size of the command post. Although there were no lights that Sam could see, the space was illuminated by the faint, blue glow of glyphs that were painted on every available surface. They covered the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and, Sam saw, the squat platforms that were arranged along the opposite wall. Sam stepped further into the room, cautiously approaching Optimus who stood beside the nearest platform.

Behind him, the door re-materialized in the entryway, plummeting the room into near darkness.

“Optimus?” Sam asked, and his voice sounded small even to his own ears.

“I am here, Sam. There is nothing to fear.”

Sam slowly, cautiously, approached the platform by which Optimus was standing. As he neared, Sam saw that there was a form lying on the surface, concealed by a large sheet of metalmesh. Sam stopped a short distance away, glancing at Optimus.

“What is this?”

In lieu of reply, Optimus reached down to carefully pull the metalmesh off the platform. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Jazz’s chassis, laid out with his servos folded over his spark casing. His optics were darkened and his armor looked gray in the dim light. The plating of Jazz’s body was painted with the same glyphs that covered every available surface of the room.

Sam swallowed thickly as he stepped closer to the platform.

“He looks normal.” He whispered, his voice hushed. There was no evidence of the grievous damage that Megatron had inflicted when he had torn Jazz in half, sundering his spark in the process.

“Ratchet repaired him in the months following Mission City. It was customary to honor the bodies of our fallen dead in this way before the Great War.”

Sam nodded faintly, and it was then that he noticed the glyph that had been painted on Jazz’s pauldron. It was a familiar sight—Sam would have known it anywhere.

“What does that mean?” He asked, his eyes flicking from the glyph to Optimus.

“It is a benediction, a prayer, to Primus. To beg for his protection and for his compassion. It means that this spark is beloved above all others.”

Sam could feel his throat thicken with emotion as tears threatened the corners of his eyes. He could almost feel Bumblebee’s fingers tracing that same glyph into his skin, over and over again. At once, Sam knew that whoever had taken the time to paint the glyphs over Jazz’s body had cared about him deeply. Sam turned to glance over his shoulder at the platforms that were arranged down the length of the wall. Although there were five other platforms, only three of them were occupied. As with Jazz, the other bodies were covered with shimmery metalmesh that reflected the faint, blue glow of the glyphs on the walls and ceiling.

After a long moment, Sam turned back to Optimus.

“Thank-you for showing me.” He said, his voice soft and sincere.

Optimus inclined his helm fractionally, and then he raised his servo to the level of his spark casing. Sam watched as his chest plates split open and pulled apart, revealing the brilliant sapphire glow of Optimus’ spark. A moment later, the Matrix of Leadership separated from Optimus’ chassis and floated, suspended, above the Autobot leader’s palm.

“I came here often, when the mausoleum was first constructed. I had hoped, in my vanity and pride, that I could reanimate our fallen, as you had reanimated me in Egypt.”

Optimus angled his servos around the Matrix of Leadership as Sam watched. The spindly relic moved in tandem with his motions, floating inches away from his digits.

“It was not to be.” Optimus continued, the regret in his voice vast and profound, “As you will come to learn, Primes can only request of Primus, they do not command him.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam said softly, and he meant it.

Optimus inclined his helm, but otherwise he did not reply. They stood there in silence for a long moment, before the Autobot leader ex-vented a deep sigh. It was weary sound.

“Thank-you for allowing me this moment.”

“Thank-you for sharing it with me.” Sam replied sincerely.

“It was never a secret from you, Sam. You are our Ambassador and a Prime.” Optimus replied.

Sam winced at his words, “Listen, about that. I lost my temper this afternoon with Smokescreen. I’m not proud of it, but it happened.”

It may have been a trick of the light, but Sam was almost certain that he saw the ghost of a smile flit across Optimus’ faceplates.

“Smokescreen is loyal and true.” Optimus replied diplomatically, “But he can test the patience of Primus himself at times.”

Sam stared at Optimus for the space of a heartbeat, and then he started laughing.

“I think that’s the least charitable thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”

Optimus inclined his helm in good-natured acknowledgement, which caused the glow of the Matrix of Leadership to spill over his face. Sam tilted his head and smiled.

“It looks different than I remember.” Sam said curiously, “Bigger, I guess.”

Optimus’ face pulled up in surprise, and then smoothed into an affectionate expression.

“You may see it, if you wish. It is your right.”

Sam felt himself flush in embarrassment, “I’m not a Prime, Optimus. Not really. I might have the title, but I don’t have the programming.”

Optimus chuckled quietly, “On that, we very much disagree.”

Without another word, Optimus swept his arm in Sam’s direction. The Matrix of Leadership followed the trajectory of his servo, propelled by an unseen force. Sam jerked back in surprise, raising his hands instinctively to protect his face. The moment that the Matrix neared his palm, Sam could feel its pull—ephemeral and solid, familiar and strange. The relic slotted into the space between his palms, as easily as breathing.

“That is wild.” Sam whispered, staring in disbelief as the faint blue glow of the Matrix washed over his hands. The relic was indeed larger than Sam remembered, easily the length of his forearm. The intricate metalwork was even more lovely and detailed than he remembered as well. Sam looked up at Optimus, unable to prevent the rapturous smile from spreading across his face. “It’s so beautiful—“

Before Sam finished speaking, the tips of his fingers brushed against the delicate metal. He gasped in surprise at the feeling of _rushing_ that filled his mind, and then the hangar telescoped away. He was aware of flashes of _movement_ and _feeling_ that pulsed through him too quickly to understand, and then there was nothing. It wasn’t darkness—darkness suggested an absence of light. This was an emptiness that Sam had never experienced before, one that he could not even have conceptualized.

Then, in the distance, there was a pinprick of color.

Desperate and confused, Sam _reached_ for it—the shock of sensation that rushed through him at the point of contact took his breath away. The feeling was overwhelming, and Sam _pulled_ back instinctively in response. The pinprick of color followed him, as the nothingness rapidly fell away around them.

As Sam came back to himself, breathing harshly and utterly disoriented, he realized that Optimus was standing at his side. The Autobot leader was leaning over the platform in front of them, speaking urgently in Cybertronian. Sam blinked rapidly, his eyes watering as he focused on the sight of Jazz sitting up on the berth. The saboteur’s optics shone brightly in the dim light of the hangar.

Sam huffed a disbelieving laugh as his vision wavered precariously, and then the ground came rushing up to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course this story was going to end on a cliffhanger! If you have enjoyed the series so far, and I hope that you did, please subscribe and/or check back for the third instillation. I hope to have it up within one week. 
> 
> Thank-you all so much. Truly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Seldras Prüfung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584113) by [mydarksidelovesthis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydarksidelovesthis/pseuds/mydarksidelovesthis)




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